(■x*M'»;*!k;<- i'  e^'-  - 


ESSAYS     ON 
BOOKS 


WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS 


wm»mtt^mmmt 


ESSAYS   ON    BOOKS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 


BY 


WILLIAM    LYON   PHELPS 

M.A.  (Harvard),  Ph.D.  (Tale) 

LAMPSON   PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE  AT  YALE 

MEMBER   OF  THE   NATIONAL  INSTITUTE   OF  ARTS 

AND   LETTERS 


"Ntia  gorfe 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1922 

A  a  rights  reserved 


\ 


Copyright,  1907,  by  The  North  American  Review  Publishing  Company; 
Copyright,  1909,  by  The  Forum  Publishing  Company;  Copyright,  1910, 
by  The  Independent;  Copyright,  1910,  by  The  Review  of  Reviews 
Company;  Copyright,  1912,  1913,  by  The  Century  Company;  Copyright, 
1914,  by  The  Yale  Publishing  Association,  Inc. 

Copyright,  1914, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October ,  1914. 


Norbiaoti  l^rtss 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  8mith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

Most  of  the  essays  in  this  volume  have  ap- 
peared in  various  periodicals  —  the  Century  Maga- 
zine, the  North  American  Review,  the  Forum,  the 
Nezv  Englander,  the  Yale  Review,  and  others. 
Some  were  written  as  introductions  to  limited  edi- 
tions. The  first  essay  was  originally  read  at  a 
joint  meeting  of  the  American  Academy  and  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters,  at  New 
York,  in  191 2;  the  essay  on  Schiller  was  read  at 
Yale  University,  on  the  one  hundredth  anniversary 
of  the  poet's  death,  in  1905. 

W.  L.  P. 

Seven  Gables,  Lake  Huron, 
Tuesday,  \j^July  1914. 


CONTENTS 


Realism  and  Reality  in 

Fiction    . 

PAGE 

I 

Richardson         .... 

i6 

Jane  Austen 

129 

Dickens       .... 

178 

Carlyle's  Love-Letters 

192 

Whittier    . 

202 

Notes  on  Mark  Twain 

211 

Marlowe     . 

.     223 

The  Poet  Herrick    . 

•     255 

Schopenhauer  and  Omar 

.     265 

Lessing  as  a  Creative  Critic 

.     277 

Schiller's  Personality  and  Influence 

•     295 

Conversations  with  Paul 

Hei 

.'SE 

.     314 

vu 


ESSAYS   ON    BOOKS 


REALISM  AND   REALITY  IN  FICTION 

During  those  early  years  of  his  youth  at  Paris, 
which  the  melancholy  but  unrepentant  George 
Moore  insists  he  spent  in  riotous  living,  he  was  on 
one  memorable  occasion  making  a  night  of  it  at  a 
ball  in  Montmartre.  In  the  midst  of  the  revelry 
a  grey  giant  came  placidly  striding  across  the 
crowded  room,  looking,  I  suppose,  something  like 
Gulliver  in  Lilliput.  It  was  the  Russian  novelist 
Turgenev.  For  a  moment  the  young  Irishman 
forgot  the  girls,  and  plunged  into  eager  talk  with 
the  man  from  the  North.  Emile  Zola  had  just 
astonished  Paris  with  VAssommoir.  In  response 
to  a  leading  question,  Turgenev  shook  his  head 
gravely  and  said :  "  What  difference  does  it  make 
whether  a  woman  sweats  in  the  middle  of  her  back 
or  under  her  arms?  I  want  to  know  how  she 
thinks,  not  how  she  feels." 

In  this  statement  the  great  master  of  diagnosis 
indicated  the  true  distinction  between  realism  and 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

reality.  A  work  of  art  may  be  conscientiously 
realistic,  —  few  men  have  had  a  more  importunate 
conscience  than  Zola,  —  and  yet  be  untrue  to  life, 
or,  at  all  events,  untrue  to  life  as  a  whole.  Realism 
may  degenerate  into  emphasis  on  sensational  but 
relatively  unimportant  detail :  reality  deals  with 
that  mystery  of  mysteries,  the  human  heart. 
Realism  may  degenerate  into  a  creed ;  and  a  formal 
creed  in  art  is  as  unsatisfactory  as  a  formal  creed 
in  religion,  for  it  is  an  attempt  to  confine  what 
by  its  very  nature  is  boundless  and  infinite  into 
a  narrow  and  prescribed  space.  Your  microscope 
may  be  accurate  and  powerful,  but  its  strong 
regard  is  turned  on  only  one  thing  at  a  time ;  and 
no  matter  how  enormously  this  thing  may  be  en- 
larged, it  remains  only  one  thing  out  of  the  in- 
finite variety  of  God's  universe.  To  describe  one 
part  of  life  by  means  of  a  perfectly  accurate  micro- 
scope is  not  to  describe  life  any  more  than  one  can 
measure  the  Atlantic  Ocean  by  means  of  a  per- 
fectly accurate  yardstick.  Zola  was  an  artist  of 
extraordinary  energy,  sincerity,  and  honesty; 
but,  after  all,  when  he  gazed  upon  a  dunghill,  he 
saw  and  described  a  dunghill.  Rostand  looked 
steadfastly  at  the  same  object,  and  beheld  the 
vision  of  Chantecler. 

Suppose    some    foreign    champion    of    realism 
should  arrive  in  New  York  at  dusk,  spend  the  whole 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

night  visiting  the  various  circles  of  our  metropolitan 
hell,  and  depart  for  Europe  in  the  dawn.  Suppose 
that  he  should  make  a  strictly  accurate  narrative 
of  all  that  he  had  seen.  Well  and  good ;  it  would 
be  realistic,  it  would  be  true.  But  suppose  he 
should  call  his  narrative  America.  Then  we  should 
assuredly  protest. 

"  You  have  not  described  America.  Your  picture 
lacks  the  most  essential  features." 

He  would  reply : 

"But  isn't  what  I  have  said  all  true?  I  defy 
you  to  deny  its  truth.  I  defy  you  to  point  out 
errors  or  exaggerations.  Everything  that  I  de- 
scribed I  saw  with  my  own  eyes." 

All  this  we  admit,  but  we  refuse  to  accept  it 
as  a  picture  of  America.  Here  is  the  cardinal  error 
of  realism.  It  selects  one  aspect  of  life,  —  usually 
a  physical  aspect,  for  it  is  easy  to  arouse  strained 
attention  by  physical  detail,  —  and  then  insists 
that  it  has  made  a  picture  of  life.  Th^  modern 
Parisian  society  drama,  for  example,  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  a  true  representation  of  French  family 
and  social  life.  Life  is  not  only  better  than  that ; 
it  is  surely  less  monotonous,  more  complex.  You 
cannot  play  a  great  symphony  on  one  instrument, 
least  of  all  on  the  triangle.  The  plays  of  Bernstein, 
Bataille,  Hervieu,  Donnay,  Capus,  Guinon,  and 
others,  brilliant  in  technical  execution  as  they  often 

3 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

are,  really  follow  a  monotonous  convention  of 
theatrical  art  rather  than  life  itself.  As  an  English 
critic  has  said,  "The  Parisian  dramatists  are  liv- 
ing in  an  atmosphere  of  half-truths  and  shams, 
grubbing  in  the  divorce  courts  and  living  upon 
the  maintenance  of  social  intrigue  just  as  comfort- 
ably as  any  bully  upon  the  earnings  of  a  prosti- 
tute." An  admirable  French  critic,  M.  Henry 
Bordeaux,  says  of  his  contemporary  playwrights, 
that  they  have  ceased  to  represent  men  and  women 
as  they  really  are.  This  is  not  realism,  he  declares ; 
it  is  a  new  style  of  false  romanticism,  where  men 
and  women  are  represented  as  though  they  pos- 
sessed no  moral  sense  —  a  romanticism  sensual, 
worldly,  and  savage.  Life  is  pictured  as  though 
there  were  no  such  things  as  daily  tasks  and  daily 
duties. 

Shakespeare  was  an  incorrigible  romantic ;  yet 
there  is  more  reality  in  his  compositions  than  in 
all  the  realism  of  his  great  contemporary,  Ben 
Jonson.  Confidently  and  defiantly,  Jonson  set 
forth  his  play  Every  Man  in  His  Humour  as  a  model 
of  what  other  plays  should  be ;  for,  said  he,  it 
contains  deeds  and  language  such  as  men  do  use. 
So  it  does:  but  it  falls  far  short  of  the  reality 
reached  by  Shakespeare  in  that  impossible  tissue 
of  absurd  events  which  he  carelessly  called  As  You 
Like  It.     In  his  erudite  and  praiseworthy  attempt 

4 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

to  bring  back  the  days  of  ancient  Rome  on  the 
Elizabethan  stage  Jonson  achieved  a  resurrection 
of  the  dead :  Shakespeare,  unembarrassed  by 
learning  and  unhampered  by  a  creed,  achieved  a 
resurrection  of  the  Uving.  Catiline  and  Sejanus 
talk  like  an  old  text;  Brutus  and  Cassius  talk 
like  living  men.  For  the  letter  killeth,  but  the 
spirit  giveth  life. 

The  form,  the  style,  the  setting,  and  the  scenery 
of  a  work  of  art  may  determine  whether  it  belongs 
to  realism  or  romanticism ;  for  realism  and  roman- 
ticism are  affairs  of  time  and  space.  Reality, 
however,  by  its  very  essence,  is  spiritual,  and  may 
be  accompanied  by  a  background  that  is  contem- 
porary, ancient,  or  purely  mythical.  An  opera 
of  the  Italian  school,  where,  after  a  tragic  scene, 
the  tenor  and  soprano  hold  hands,  trip  together 
to  the  footlights,  and  produce  fluent  roulades, 
may  be  set  in  a  drawing-room,  with  contemporary, 
realistic  furniture.  Compare  La  Traviata  with 
the  first  act  of  Die  Walkiire,  and  see  the  difference 
between  realism  and  reality.  In  the  wildly  roman- 
tic and  mythical  setting,  the  passion  of  love  is 
intensely  real ;  and  as  the  storm  ceases,  the  portal 
swings  open,  and  the  soft  air  of  the  moonlit  spring 
night  enters  the  room,  the  eternal  reality  of  love 
makes  its  eternal  appeal  in  a  scene  of  almost  intol- 
erable beauty.     Even  so  carefully  reaUstic  an  opera 

5 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

as  Louise  does  not  seem  for  the  moment  any  more 
real  than  these  lovers  in  the  spring  moonhght,  deep 
in  the  heart  of  the  whispering  forest. 

A  fixed  creed,  whether  it  be  a  creed  of  optimism, 
pessimism,  realism,  or  romanticism,  is  a  positive 
nuisance  to  an  artist.  Joseph  Conrad,  all  of  whose 
novels  have  the  unmistakable  air  of  reality,  declares 
that  the  novelist  should  have  no  programme  of  any 
kind  and  no  set  rules.  In  a  memorable  phrase  he 
cries,  ''Liberty  of  the  imagination  should  be  the 
most  precious  possession  of  a  novelist."  Optimism 
may  be  an  insult  to  the  sufferings  of  humanity, 
but,  says  Mr.  Conrad,  pessimism  is  intellectual 
arrogance.  He  will  have  it  that  while  the  ultimate 
meaning  of  life  —  if  there  be  one  —  is  hidden  from 
us,  at  all  events  this  is  a  spectacular  universe ; 
and  a  man  who  has  doubled  the  Horn  and  sailed 
through  a  typhoon  on  what  was  unintentionally 
a  submarine  vessel  may  be  pardoned  for  insisting 
on  this  point  of  view.  It  is  indeed  a  spectacular 
universe,  which  has  resisted  all  the  attempts  of 
realistic  novelists  to  make  it  dull.  However  sad 
or  gay  life  may  be,  it  affords  an  interesting  spec- 
tacle. Perhaps  this  is  one  reason  why  all  works 
of  art  that  possess  reality  never  fail  to  draw  and 
hold  attention. 

Every  critic  ought  to  have  a  hospitable  mind. 
His  attitude  toward  art  in  general  should  be  like 

6 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

that  of  an  old-fashioned  host  at  the  door  of  a  coun- 
try inn,  ready  to  welcome  all  guests  except  crimi- 
nals. It  is  impossible  to  judge  with  any  fairness 
a  new  poem,  a  new  opera,  a  new  picture,  a  new 
novel,  if  the  critic  have  preconceived  opinions  as 
to  what  poetry,  music,  painting,  and  fiction  should 
be.  We  are  all  such  creatures  of  convention  that 
the  first  impression  made  by  reality  in  any  form  of 
art  is  sometimes  a  distinct  shock,  and  we  close  the 
windows  of  our  intelligence  and  draw  the  blinds 
that  the  fresh  air  and  the  new  light  may  not  enter 
in.  Just  as  no  form  of  art  is  so  strange  as  life,  so 
it  may  be  the  strangeness  of  reality  in  books,  in 
pictures,  and  in  music  that  makes  our  attitude  one 
of  resistance  rather  than  of  welcome. 

Shortly  after  the  appearance  of  Wordsworth's 
Resolution  and  Independence, 

"  There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night, 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods," 

some  one  read  aloud  the  poem  to  an  intelligent 
woman.  She  burst  into  tears,  but,  recovering 
herself,  said  shamefacedly,  "After  all,  it  isn't 
poetry."  When  Pushkin,  striking  off  the  shackles 
of  eighteenth-century  conventions,  published  his 
first  work,  a  Russian  critic  exclaimed,  "For  God's 
sake  don't  call  this  thing  a  poem  !"  These  two 
poems  seemed  strange  because  they  were  so  natural, 

7 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

so  real,  so  true,  just  as  a  sincere  person  who  speaks 
his  mind  in  social  intercourse  is  regarded  as  an 
eccentric.  We  follow  conventions  and  not  life. 
In  operas  the  lover  must  be  a  tenor,  as  though  the 
love  of  a  man  for  a  woman  were  something  soft, 
something  delicate,  something  emasculate,  instead 
of  being  what  it  really  is,  the  very  essence  of  mascu- 
line virility.  I  suppose  that  on  the  operatic  stage 
a  lover  with  a  bass  voice  would  shock  a  good  many 
people  in  the  auditorium,  but  I  should  like  to  see 
the  experiment  tried.  In  Haydn's  Creation,  our 
first  parents  sing  a  bass  and  soprano  duet  very 
sweetly.  But  Verdi  gave  that  seasoned  old  soldier 
Otello  a  tenor  role,  and  even  the  fearless  Wagner 
made  his  leading  lovers  all  sing  tenor  except  the 
Flying  Dutchman,  who  can  hardly  be  called  human. 
In  society  dramas  we  have  become  so  accustomed 
to  conventional  inflections,  conventional  gestures, 
conventional  grimaces,  that  when  an  actor  speaks 
and  behaves  exactly  as  he  would  were  the  situation 
real,  instead  of  assumed,  the  effect  is  startUng. 
Virgin  snow  often  looks  blue,  but  it  took  courage 
to  paint  it  blue,  because  people  judge  not  by  eye- 
sight, but  by  convention,  and  snow  conventionally 
is  assuredly  white.  In  reading  works  of  fiction 
we  have  become  so  accustomed  to  conventions 
that  we  hardly  notice  how  often  they  contradict 
reality.    In  many  novels  I  have  read  I  have  been 

8 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

introduced  to  respectable  women  with  scarlet  lips, 
whereas  in  life  I  never  saw  a  really  good  woman 
with  such  labial  curiosities.  Conversations  are 
conventionally  unnatural.  A  trivial  illustration 
will  suffice.  Some  one  in  a  group  makes  an  attrac- 
tive proposition.  "Agreed  !"  cried  they  all.  Did 
you  ever  hear  any  one  say  "Agreed"? 

I  suppose  that  all  novels,  no  matter  how  osten- 
sibly objective,  must  really  be  subjective.  Out  of 
the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh. 
Every  artist  feels  the  imperative  need  of  self- 
expression.  Milton  used  to  sit  in  his  arm-chair, 
waiting  impatiently  for  his  amanuensis,  and  cry, 
"I  want  to  be  milked."  Even  so  dignified,  so 
reticent,  and  so  sober-minded  a  novelist  as  Joseph 
Conrad  says,  "The  novelist  does  not  describe  the 
world:  he  simply  describes  his  own  world."  Sid- 
ney's advice,  "Look  in  thy  heart,  and  write,"  is 
as  applicable  to  the  realistic  novelist  as  it  is  to  the 
lyric  poet.  We  know  now  that  the  greatest  novel- 
ist of  our  time,  Tolstoi,  wrote  his  autobiography 
in  every  one  of  his  so-called  works  of  fiction.  The 
astonishing  air  of  reality  that  they  possess  is  owing 
largely  to  the  fact  not  merely  that  they  are  true 
to  life,  but  that  they  are  the  living  truth.  When 
an  artist  succeeds  in  getting  the  secrets  of  his 
inmost  heart  on  the  printed  page,  the  book  lives. 
This  accounts  for  the  extraordinary  power  of  Dos- 

9 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

toevski,  who  simply  turned  himself  inside  out 
every  time  he  wrote  a  novel. 

The  only  reality  that  we  can  consistently  demand 
of  a  novel  is  that  its  characters  and  scenes  shall 
make  a  permanent  impression  on  our  imagination. 
The  object  of  all  forms  of  art  is  to  produce  an  illu- 
sion, and  the  illusion  cannot  be  successful  with  ex- 
perienced readers  unless  it  have  the  air  of  reality. 
The  longer  we  live,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  deceive 
us :  we  smile  at  the  scenes  that  used  to  draw  our 
tears,  we  are  left  cold  by  the  declamation  that  we 
once  thought  was  passion,  and  we  have  supped  so 
full  with  horrors  that  we  are  not  easily  frightened. 
We  are  simply  bored  as  we  see  the  novelist  get  out 
his  little  bag  of  tricks.  But  we  never  weary  of 
the  great  figures  in  Fielding,  in  Jane  Austen,  in 
Dickens,  in  Thackeray,  in  Balzac,  in  Turgenev, 
for  they  have  become  an  actual  part  of  our  mental 
life.  And  it  is  interesting  to  remember  that  while 
the  ingenious  situations  and  boisterous  swash- 
bucklers of  most  romances  fade  like  the  flowers  of 
the  field.  Cooper  and  Dumas  are  read  by  genera- 
tion after  generation.  Their  heroes  cannot  die, 
because  they  have  what  Mrs.  Browning  called  the 
''principle  of  life." 

The  truly  great  novelist  is  not  only  in  harmony 
with  life ;  his  characters  seem  to  move  with  the 
stars  in  their  courses.      "To  be,"  said  the  phi- 

10 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

losopher  Lotze,  "is  to  be  in  relations."  The 
moment  a  work  of  art  ceases  to  be  in  relation  with 
life,  it  ceases  to  be.  All  the  great  novelists  are 
what  I  like  to  call  sidereal  novelists.  They  belong 
to  the  earth,  like  the  procession  of  the  seasons ; 
they  are  universal,  like  the  stars.  A  commonplace 
producer  of  novels  for  the  market  describes  a  group 
of  people  that  remains  nothing  but  a  group  of 
people;  they  interest  us  perhaps  momentarily, 
like  an  item  in  a  newspaper ;  but  they  do  not 
interest  us  deeply,  any  more  than  we  are  really 
interested  at  this  moment  in  what  Brown  and 
Jones  are  doing  in  Rochester  or  Louisville.  They 
may  be  interesting  to  their  author,  for  children 
are  always  interesting  to  their  parents ;  but  to  the 
ordinary  reader  they  begin  and  end  their  fictional 
life  as  an  isolated  group.  On  the  contrary,  when 
we  read  a  story  Hke  The  Return  of  the  Native,  the 
book  seems  as  inevitable  as  the  approach  of  winter, 
as  the  setting  of  the  sun.  All  its  characters  seem 
to  share  in  the  diurnal  revolution  of  the  earth,  to 
have  a  fixed  place  in  the  order  of  the  universe.  We 
are  considering  only  the  fortunes  of  a  little  group 
of  people  living  in  a  little  corner  of  England,  but 
they  seem  to  be  in  intimate  and  necessary  relation 
with  the  movement  of  the  forces  of  the  universe. 
The  recent  revival  of  the  historical  romance, 
which  shot  up  in  the  nineties,  flourished  mightily 

II 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

at  the  end  of  the  century,  and  has  already  faded, 
was  a  protest  not  against  reality,  but  against 
realism.  Realism  in  the  eighties  had  become  a 
doctrine,  and  we  know  how  its  fetters  cramped 
Stevenson,  He  joyously  and  resolutely  burst 
them,  and  gave  us  romance  after  romance,  all  of 
which  except  the  Black  Arrow  showed  a  reality 
superior  to  realism.  The  year  of  his  death,  1894, 
ushered  in  the  romantic  revival.  Romanticism 
suddenly  became  a  fashion  that  forced  many  new 
writers  and  some  experts  to  mould  their  work  in 
its  form.  A  few  specific  illustrations  must  be  given 
to  prove  this  statement.  Mr.  Stanley  Weyman 
really  wanted  to  write  a  realistic  novel,  and  actually 
wrote  one,  but  the  public  would  none  of  it :  he 
therefore  fed  the  mob  with  The  House  oj  the  Wolf, 
with  A  Gentleman  from  France,  with  Under  the 
Red  Robe.  Enormously  successful  were  these 
stirring  tales.  The  air  became  full  of  obsolete 
oaths  and  the  clash  of  steel  —  "God's  bodikins  ! 
man,  I  will  spit  you  like  a  lark  ! "  To  use  a  scholar's 
phrase,  we  began  to  revel  in  the  glamour  of  a  bogus 
antiquity.  For  want  of  a  better  term,  I  call  all 
these  romances  the  "Gramercy"  books.  Mr. 
Winston  Churchill,  now  a  popular  disciple  of  the 
novel  of  manners,  gained  his  reputation  by  RicJiard 
Carvel,  with  a  picture  of  a  duel  facing  the  title- 
page.     Perhaps  the  extent  of  the  romantic  craze 

12 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

is  shown  most  clearly  in  the  success  attained  by 
the  thoroughly  sophisticated  Anthony  Hope  with 
The  Prisoner  of  Zenda,  by  the  author  of  Peter 
Stirling  with  Janice  Meredith,  and  most  of  all  by 
the  strange  Adventures  of  Captain  Horn,  a  bloody 
story  of  buried  treasure,  actually  written  by  our 
beloved  humorist,  Frank  Stockton.  Mr.  Stockton 
had  the  temperament  most  fatal  to  romance,  the 
bright  gift  of  humorous  burlesque ;  the  real  Frank 
Stockton  is  seen  in  that  original  and  joyful  work, 
The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Aleshine. 
Yet  the  fact  that  he  felt  the  necessity  of  writing 
Captain  Horn,  is  good  evidence  of  the  tide.  This 
romantic  wave  engulfed  Europe  as  well  as  America, 
but  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  the  only  work  after 
the  death  of  Stevenson  that  seems  destined  to 
remain,  appeared  in  the  epical  historical  romances 
of  the  Pole  Sienkiewicz.  Hundreds  of  the  romances 
that  the  world  was  eagerly  reading  in  1900  are  now 
forgotten  like  last  year's  almanac ;  but  they  served 
a  good  purpose  apart  from  temporary  amusement 
to  invalids,  overtired  business  men,  and  the  young. 
There  was  the  sound  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  the 
close  chambers  of  modern  realism  were  cleansed 
by  the  fresh  air. 

A  new  kind  of  realism,  more  closely  related  to 
reality,  has  taken  the  place  of  the  receding  romance. 
We  now  behold  the  "life"  novel,  the  success  of 

13 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

which  is  a  curious  demonstration  of  the  falseness 
of  recent  prophets.  We  were  told  a  short  time 
ago  that  the  long  novel  was  extinct.  The  three- 
volume  novel  seemed  very  dead  indeed,  and  the 
fickle  public  would  read  nothing  but  a  short  novel, 
and  would  not  read  that  unless  some  one  was 
swindled,  seduced,  or  stabbed  on  the  first  page. 
Then  suddenly  appeared  Joseph  Vance,  which  its 
author  called  an  ill-written  autobiography,  and  it 
contained  280,000  words.  It  was  devoured  by  a 
vast  army  of  readers,  who  clamoured  for  more.  Mr. 
Arnold  Bennett,  who  had  made  a  number  of  short 
flights  without  attracting  much  attention,  pro- 
duced The  Old  Wives'  Tale,  giving  the  complete 
life-history  of  two  sisters.  Emboldened  by  the 
great  and  well-deserved  success  of  this  history, 
he  launched  a  trilogy,  of  which  two  huge  sections 
are  already  in  the  hands  of  a  wide  public.  No 
details  are  omitted  in  these  vast  structures ;  even 
a  cold  in  the  head  is  elaborately  described.  But 
thousands  and  thousands  of  people  seem  to  have 
the  time  and  the  patience  to  read  these  volumes. 
Why?  Because  the  story  is  in  intimate  relation 
with  life.  A  gifted  Frenchman  appears  on  the 
scene  with  a  novel  in  ten  volumes,  Jean  Christophe, 
dealing  with  the  Ufe  of  this  hero  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave.  This  is  being  translated  into  all  the 
languages  of  Europe,  so  intense  is  the  curiosity  of 

14 


REALISM    AND    REALITY    IN    FICTION 

the  world  regarding  a  particular  book  of  life. 
Some  may  ask,  Why  should  the  world  be  burdened 
with  this  enormous  mass  of  trivial  detail  in  rather 
uneventful  lives?  The  answer  may  he  found  in 
Fra  Lippo  Lippi's  spirited  defence  of  his  art, 
which  differed  from  the  art  of  Fra  Angelico  in 
sticking  close  to  reality : 

"For,  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see." 

I  find  in  the  contemporary  "life"  novel  a  sin- 
cere, dignified,  and  successful  effort  to  substitute 
reality  for  the  former  rather  narrow  realism ;  for 
it  is  an  attempt  to  represent  life  as  a  whole. 


IS 


II 

RICHARDSON 

Richardson  was  born  somewhere  in  Derbyshire, 
in  the  year  1689.  His  father  was  a  joiner,  who 
originally  intended  that  his  son  should  enter  the 
church  —  not  a  bad  guess  at  the  youth's  talents 
for  godly  instruction.  But  financial  embarrass- 
ments prohibited  an  expensive  education :  and 
when  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old,  the  diligent 
Samuel  was  compelled  to  earn  his  living  at  busi- 
ness. Like  Shakespeare,  he  had  only  the  book- 
training  of  the  common  school :  he  knew  no  lan- 
guage but  his  own :  and  although,  as  a  printer,  he 
had  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  contemporary 
literature,  he  was  never,  to  his  bitter  and  lasting 
regret,  either  a  learned  or  a  well-read  man.  The 
Latin  quotations  in  his  books  were  prompted  by 
his  friends. 

At  school,  however,  he  learned  something  besides 
the  three  R's ;  even  at  that  tender  age,  the  two 
things  in  which  he  chiefly  excelled  in  later  years 
—  the  manufacture  of  moral  phrases  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  hearts  of  women  —  are  what  he  prac- 
tised and  studied  with  unwearied  assiduity.     He 

16 


RICHARDSON 

was  a  childish  anomaly  —  a  wise  and  prudent  prig. 
The  boys  called  him  ''Serious  and  Gravity,"  but 
when  did  Richardson  care  for  the  opinion  of  boys 
and  men,  so  long  as  he  had  their  sisters  on  his 
side?  As  Mrs.  Barbauld  says,  "He  was  fond  of 
two  things,  which  boys  have  generally  an  aversion 
to,  letter-writing,  and  the  company  of  the  other 
sex."  The  author  of  Treasure  Island  represented 
exactly  the  opposite  type ;  Stevenson  was  always 
a  boy  at  heart,  while  Richardson,  whatever  he  was 
in  his  teens,  was  never  a  boy. 

Surely  if  it  were  ever  given  to  any  man  to  know 
the  windings  of  a  woman's  heart,  it  was  to  Richard- 
son, and  he  began  training  as  a  novelist  in  a  way 
that  may  be  earnestly  recommended  to  all  youth- 
ful literary  aspirants.  "I  was  not  more  than  thir- 
teen, when  three  .  .  .  young  women,  unknown  to 
each  other,  having  a  high  opinion  of  my  taciturnity, 
revealed  to  me  their  love-secrets,  in  order  to 
induce  me  to  give  them  copies  to  write  after,  or 
correct,  for  answers  to  their  lover's  letters :  nor 
did  any  one  of  them  know  that  I  was  the  secretary 
to  the  others.  I  have  been  directed  to  chide,  and 
even  repulse,  when  an  offence  was  either  taken  or 
given,  at  the  very  time  that  the  heart  of  the  chider 
or  repulser  was  open  before  me,  overflowing  with 
esteem  and  affection ;  and  the  fair  repulser,  dread- 
ing to  be  taken  at  her  word,  directing  this  word,  or 
c  17 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

that  expression,  to  be  softened  or  changed.  One 
highly  gratified  with  her  lover's  fervour,  and  vows 
of  everlasting  love,  has  said,  when  I  asked  her 
direction ;  I  cannot  tell  you  what  to  write ;  but 
(her  heart  on  her  lips)  you  cannot  write  too  kindly  ; 
all  her  fear  was  only,  that  she  should  incur  slight 
for  her  kindness." 

Miss  Clara  Thomson  remarks  as  follows  on 
Richardson's  early  and  unconscious  training  as  a 
novelist:  "It  was  this  early  experience  that 
enabled  him  to  describe  with  such  astonishing 
accuracy  the  intricacies  of  feminine  passion,  and 
to  realise  the  fallacy  of  the  prejudice  that  requires 
a  woman's  affections  to  be  passive  till  roused  to 
activity  by  the  declaration  of  a  lover.  He  under- 
stood that  .  .  .  the  ordinary  heroine  of  the  mascu- 
line dramatist  or  novelist  is  rather  an  exposition 
of  what  he  thinks  a  woman  should  be,  than  an  illus- 
tration of  what  she  is." 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  that  the  greatest 
living  English  novelist,  Thomas  Hardy,  had  early 
training  similar  to  Richardson's.  He  acted  as 
amanuensis  for  the  village  girls,  when  he  was  only 
a  child,  and  though  he  did  not  compose,  but  only 
wrote  their  letters,  his  impressionable  brain,  receiv- 
ing so  many  warm  outpourings  of  the  feminine 
heart,  reproduced  them  afterwards  with  the 
fidelity  that  Tess  and  Eustacia  show. 

i8 


RICHARDSON 

When  seventeen  years  old,  Richardson  was 
bound  as  an  apprentice  to  John  Wilde,  of  Stationers' 
Hall,  a  printer.  He  had  hoped,  in  selecting  this 
business,  to  devote  all  his  spare  hours  to  general 
reading ;  but  unfortunately  he  had  no  spare  hours, 
Mr.  Wilde  soon  discovered  that  he  had  a  faithful 
and  valuable  apprentice ;  and  he  forthwith  deter- 
mined to  use  all  the  boy's  energy  and  time  to  his 
master's  profit ;  rewarding  him  with  well-merited 
praise,  and  calling  him  the  pillar  of  his  house. 
Hard-pressed  as  Richardson  was,  his  insatiable 
passion  for  letter-writing  became  ungovernable ; 
and  he  carried  on  a  full  correspondence  with  a 
gentleman,  his  superior  in  rank  and  fortune. 
Richardson's  similarity  in  deeds  and  maxims  to 
Hogarth's  faithful  apprentice  has  naturally  im- 
pressed many.  His  only  diversion  was  letter- 
writing.  He  was  careful  never  to  write  when  by 
any  possibility  he  could  be  serving  his  master,  and 
the  candle  whose  light  flickered  o'er  his  manuscript 
was  bought  by  his  own  money. 

The  young  man's  steadiness  and  industry  met 
with  their  natural  and  edifying  reward :  graduat- 
ing from  the  apprentice  school,  he  became  a  jour- 
neyman printer,  and  finally  the  foreman.  In 
1 7 19  he  opened  business  for  himself,  removing  in 
1724  to  Salisbury  Court,  now  Salisbury  Square, 
identified  with  Richardson  from  that  day  to  this. 

19 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

There  his  warehouse  and  his  city  residence  re- 
mained till  his  death.  We  need  not  follow  further 
his  fortunes  as  a  printer.  He  became  one  of  the 
best-known  men  of  his  class  in  London ;  through 
the  Speaker's  influence,  he  printed  the  Journals  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  and  acquired  a  snug  for- 
tune, which  enabled  him  to  have  a  pleasant  country- 
house,  and  to  indulge  himself  in  another  passion 
—  hospitality  —  one  of  his  noblest  and  most 
delightful  characteristics. 

Miss  Thomson  has  shown  that  on  23  November 
1721,  Richardson  was  married  to  Martha  Wilde, 
and  that  all  the  circumstances  indicate  that  she 
was  the  daughter  of  his  former  master,  the  Dic- 
tionary of  National  Biography  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  Could  anything  carry  out  more 
completely  the  parallel  to  Hogarth,  or  could  we 
ever  find  a  better  model  for  the  hero  of  a  Sunday- 
school  book  ?  The  youth's  father  loses  his  fortune  ; 
the  boy  leaves  school,  and  becomes  an  apprentice ; 
by  faithful  and  diligent  toil,  by  a  sober,  righteous, 
and  godly  life,  he  rises  steadily  in  fortune  and  repu- 
tation ;  he  becomes  the  independent  head  of  a  flour- 
ishing business ;  and  places  the  capstone  in  position 
by  marrying  his  original  employer's  daughter ! 

Richardson  was  twice  married,  both  times 
happily.  His  first  wife  died  in  1731,  and  the  next 
year   he   made  his   second  matrimonial   venture, 

20 


RICHARDSON 

marrying  Elizabeth  Leake,  of  Bath.  She  was  then 
thirty-six  years  old.  She  survived  her  husband, 
dying  in  1773.  Richardson  had  just  a  dozen 
children,  six  by  each  wife.  Martha  Wilde  bore 
him  five  sons  and  one  daughter,  and  Elizabeth 
Leake  presented  him  with  five  daughters  and  one 
son.  The  satisfaction  that  so  exceedingly  methodi- 
cal a  man  as  Richardson  must  have  obtained  from 
so  symmetrical  branches  of  offspring  was  seriously 
impaired  by  the  fact  that  they  were  so  soon  blighted 
by  death.  All  the  children  of  his  first  wife  died 
practically  in  infancy,  and  of  the  second  brood, 
a  son  and  a  daughter  died  not  long  after  birth. 
This  boy  was  the  third  that  Richardson  called 
Samuel,  the  mortality  of  the  sons  being  equalled 
only  by  the  immortality  of  the  father  —  as  if  Fate 
had  determined  to  reserve  that  name  for  only  one 
individual.  Four  daughters  survived  him,  cheer- 
ing his  way  in  the  Valley,  and  showing  him  constant 
devotion  and  love.  A  busy  time  they  had,  writing 
and  copying  his  long  letters,  but  they  seemed  in 
somewhat  similar  circumstances  to  exhibit  more 
cheerfulness  than  the  daughters  of  Milton. 

About  1755  Richardson's  health  became  so  shat- 
tered that  he  looked  forward  with  quiet  composure 
to  advancing  death.  One  by  one  his  old  friends 
passed  away;  in  1757  his  eldest  daughter  Mary 
was  married,  the  only  one  of  his  children  wedded 

21 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

before  his  death.  Patty  and  Sarah  took  husbands 
not  long  after  their  father's  funeral,  and  Nancy, 
who  constantly  suffered  from  ill-health,  survived 
them  all,  dying  a  spinster  in  1803.  Richardson 
loved  his  daughters,  but  they  were  always  afraid 
of  him,  as  is  commonly  the  case  where  too  much 
formality  obtains  between  children  and  parents. 
His  stiffness,  arising  partly  from  shyness,  partly 
from  self-consciousness,  and  partly  from  vanity, 
made  it  difficult  for  him  ever  to  put  any  one,  even 
his  own  children,  entirely  at  ease  in  his  presence. 
Furthermore,  he  solemnly  believed  that  the 
pater -familias  was  the  Head  of  the  House ;  and 
should  never  be  treated  by  his  womankind  on  terms 
of  exact  equality. 

In  1 761  his  increasing  infirmities  showed  that 
the  last  catastrophe  was  nigh.  On  the  fourth  of 
July  in  that  year  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the 
centre  aisle  of  St.  Bride's  church,  London,  close 
by  his  home  in  Salisbury  Court.  An  epitaph  on 
the  floor  above  his  dust  sets  forth  his  many  virtues. 
The  gallant  cavalier  poet,  Lovelace,  had  been  buried 
in  the  same  church ;  and  his  noble  and  dashing 
qualities  had  suggested  to  the  novelist  the  name 
of  his  most  famous  hero,  by  merit  raised  to  a  bad 
eminence. 

Richardson's  personal  appearance,  owing  to  our 
fortimate  possession  of  a  number  of  portraits,  is 

22 


RICHARDSON 

as  familiar  to  us  as  it  was  to  his  contemporaries. 
We  have  him  in  his  habit  as  he  lived.  The  best 
portrait  of  him  was  by  the  artist  Highmore,  whose 
daughter  Susannah  was  one  of  Richardson's  most 
intimate  friends.  This  picture  now  hangs  in  Sta- 
tioners' Hall,  off  Ludgate  Hill.  It  represents  him 
standing,  his  right  hand  thrust  within  the  breast 
of  his  coat,  and  his  left  hand  holding  an  open  book, 
presumably  one  of  his  own  compositions.  The 
inevitable  quill  is  within  easy  reach,  and  it  was 
with  this  inspired  instrument  that  he  sketched  a 
portrait  of  himself,  far  more  animated  than  even 
Highmore's  talent  could  portray.  In  a  letter  to 
his  favourite  correspondent,  Lady  Bradshaigh,  he 
thus  gives  a  picture  by  which  she  is  to  recognise 
him  in  the  Park. 

"Short;  rather  plump  than  emaciated  .  .  . 
about  five  foot  five  inches :  fair  wig ;  .  .  .  one 
hand  generally  in  his  bosom,  the  other  a  cane  in 
it,  which  he  leans  upon  under  the  skirts  of  his  coat 
usually,  that  it  may  imperceptibly  serve  him  as  a 
support,  when  attacked  by  sudden  tremors  or 
startUngs,  and  dizziness,  which  too  frequently 
attack  him,  but,  thank  God,  not  so  often  as  for- 
merly :  looking  directly  foreright,  as  passers-by 
would  imagine ;  but  observing  all  that  stirs  on 
either  hand  of  him  without  moving  his  short  neck ; 
hardly  ever  turning  back :   of  a  light-brown  com- 

23 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

plexion ;  teeth  not  yet  failing  him ;  smoothish 
faced  and  ruddy  cheeked :  at  some  times  looking 
to  be  about  sixty-five,  at  other  times  much  younger : 
a  regular  even  pace,  stealing  away  ground,  rather 
than  seeming  to  rid  it :  a  grey  eye,  too  often  over- 
clouded by  mistinesses  from  the  head  :  by  chance 
lively;  very  lively  it  will  be,  if  he  have  hope  of 
seeing  a  lady  whom  he  loves  and  honours :  his  eye 
always  on  the  ladies." 

It  was  by  no  accident  that  the  genius  of  Richard- 
son is  most  evident  in  his  portrayal  of  women. 
They  were  his  chosen  companions  and  confidants ; 
though  in  the  matter  of  confidences,  Richardson 
felt  that  it  was  more  blessed  to  receive  than  to  give. 
He  was  not  a  ladies'  man,  though  he  knew  them 
well,  any  more  than  he  was  a  man-of-the-town, 
though  he  knew  that  well :  he  was  something  quite 
different  —  a  woman's  man.  Were  he  living  to-day 
he  would  be  the  hero  of  Women's  Sewing  Circles, 
of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  and  Foreign  Missionary  Bands, 
and  the  incense  that  would  arise  from  the  thousands 
of  Women's  Clubs  may  best  be  left  to  the  imagi- 
nation. During  the  years  of  his  fame,  women 
clung  to  his  coat-tails  with  passionate  devotion. 
It  is  curious,  by  way  of  contrast,  to  remember 
that  as  the  young  wits  of  the  seventeenth  century 
loved  to  call  themselves  the  Sons  of  old  Ben  Jonson, 
so  the  young  women  of  the  next  century  gloried 

24 


RICHARDSON 

in  the  appellation  of  Richardson's  "Daughters": 
and  the  novelist  loved  to  drink  tea  and  talk  senti- 
ment with  them,  even  as  Ben  loved  to  sit  in  the 
tavern,  tankard  in  hand,  surrounded  by  his  beloved 
Sons.  This  difference  in  hero-worshippers  illus- 
trates sufficiently  the  contrast  in  temperament  be- 
tween a  robust  nature  like  Jonson's  and  a  deli- 
cate one  like  Richardson's.  "My  acquaintance 
lies  chiefly  among  the  ladies,"  he  writes;  "I  care 
not  who  knows  it."  It  was  not  merely  because  he 
understood  them  sympathetically  that  the  women 
opened  their  hearts  to  the  great  novelist ;  it  was 
largely  because  of  his  goodness,  his  purity,  his  dis- 
cretion, and  the  absolute  safety  of  even  the  closest 
and  most  confidential  relations  with  the  little  man. 
He  was  no  avantour ;  secrets  were  safe.  So  re- 
splendent a  genius  united  with  a  moral  character 
so  lofty  was  a  rather  unusual  combination  in  the 
social  conditions  of  eighteenth-century  life ;  and 
it  drew  the  hearts  of  idolatrous  women  with  irre- 
sistible power.  They  felt,  too,  that  in  Pamela  and 
Clarissa  he  had  glorified  women,  and  had  given 
a  final  and  immortal  answer  to  the  gibes  on  female 
virtue  and  constancy,  which  were  the  staple  of 
satirical  literature  and  polite  conversation.  And 
yet  Richardson  accepted  the  worship  of  the  fair 
without  disguising  his  opinion  that  men  were  the 
lords  of  creation.     A  strong-minded    woman,  or 

25 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

what  we  call  to-day,  a  "new"  woman,  Richardson 
would  not  have  admitted  to  the  circle  of  his 
"Daughters."  Lady  Bradshaigh,  in  her  charming 
correspondence  with  him,  said  she  disliked  learned 
women.  "I  hate  to  hear  Latin  out  of  a  woman's 
mouth.  There  is  something  in  it  to  me,  mascu- 
line." In  a  half-bantering  way,  Richardson  gently 
rebuked  her  for  this  utterance,  but  it  is  evident 
that  he  thought  the  chief  duty  of  a  married  woman 
was  to  please  her  husband,  and  attend  to  domestic 
affairs.  Furthermore,  he  shocked  his  fair  corre- 
spondent, as  he  does  his  admirers  to-day,  by  theo- 
retically advocating  polygamy.  He  declared  that 
he  would  not  openly  support  it  as  an  institution, 
or  practise  it,  because  the  laws  of  England  forbade 
it,  but  in  theory  he  argued  with  considerable 
warmth,  that  it  was  never  forbidden  by  God,  and 
that  it  was  a  natural  and  proper  condition  of 
life.  "I  do  say,"  he  writes  to  Lady  Bradshaigh, 
"that  the  law  of  nature,  and  the  first  command 
(increase  and  multiply) ,  more  than  allow  of  it ; 
and  the  law  of  God  nowhere  forbids  it."  He 
continued  to  press  similar  arguments  upon  his 
horrified  friend,  who  finally  tried  to  close  the  con- 
troversy by  writing  to  him,  "I  remember  how 
you  terrified  poor  Pamela  with  Mr.  B.'s  argument 
for  polygamy.  The  dense  take  these  polygamy 
notions ! " 

26 


RICHARDSON 

Richardson's  shyness  in  company,  previously 
spoken  of,  caused  him,  as  well  as  his  associates, 
many  unhappy  hours,  and  upon  casual  acquaint- 
ances produced  a  false  impression  of  his  character. 
No  one  knew  this  better  than  he,  as  is  shown  in 
a  letter  to  Miss  Mulso,  dated  15  August  1755. 
"  Never  was  there  so  bashful,  so  sheepish  a  creature 
as  was,  till  advanced  years,  your  paternal  friend ; 
and  what  remained  so  long  in  the  habit  could  hardly 
fail  of  showing  itself  in  stiffness  and  shyness,  on 
particular  occasions,  where  frankness  of  heart 
would  otherwise  have  shown  forth  to  the  advantage 
of  general  character."  That  Richardson  was  by 
nature  both  frank  and  sincere  is  fully  shown  in  the 
long  list  of  his  letters. 

The  constitutional  seriousness  of  his  mind  was 
deepened  by  the  frequent  deaths  in  his  family, 
and  his  health,  never  robust,  and  undermined  by 
hard  work,  was  sadly  shaken  by  these  misfortunes. 
He  writes : 

"Thus  have  I  lost  six  sons  (all  my  sons)  and  two 
daughters,  every  one  of  which,  to  answer  your 
question,  I  parted  with  with  the  utmost  regret. 
Other  heavy  deprivations  of  friends,  very  near, 
and  very  dear,  have  I  also  suffered.  I  am  very 
susceptible,  I  will  venture  to  say,  of  impressions 
of  this  nature.  A  father,  an  honest,  a  worthy 
father,  I  lost  by  the  accident  of  a  broken  thigh, 

27 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

snapped  by  a  sudden  jirk,  endeavouring  to  recover 
a  slip  passing  through  his  own  yard.  My  father, 
whom  I  attended  in  every  stage  of  his  last  illness, 
I  long  mourned  for.  Two  brothers,  very  dear  to 
me,  I  lost  abroad.  A  friend,  more  valuable  than 
most  brothers,  was  taken  from  me.  No  less  than 
eleven  affecting  deaths  in  two  years !  My  nerves 
were  so  affected  with  these  repeated  blows,  that  I 
have  been  forced,  after  trying  the  whole  materia 
medica,  and  consulting  many  physicians,  as  the 
only  palliative  (not  a  remedy  to  be  expected),  to 
go  into  a  regimen ;  and,  for  seven  years  past  have 
I  forborne  wine  and  flesh  and  fish ;  and,  at  this 
time,  I  and  all  my  family  are  in  mourning  for  a 
good  sister,  with  whom  neither  would  I  have 
parted,  could  I  have  had  my  choice.  From  these 
affecting  dispensations,  will  you  not  allow  me. 
Madam,  to  remind  an  unthinking  world,  immersed 
in  pleasures,  what  a  life  this  is  that  they  are  so 
fond  of,  and  to  arm  them  against  the  affecting 
changes  of  it?" 

It  is  certainly  natural  that  a  man,  over  whose 
family  circle  the  King  of  Terrors  so  frequently 
presided,  should  have  been  both  grave  and  didactic 
in  temper ;  and  if  careless  readers  criticise  him  for 
lacking  the  ease  and  gaiety  of  Fielding's  disposition, 
it  is  well  to  remember  the  grim  facts  in  the  print- 
er's career.     Nor  can  we  withhold  admiration  for 

28 


RICHARDSON 

Richardson's  constancy,  self-control,  and  evenness 
of  disposition,  under  misfortunes  so  crushing  that 
many  another  man  would  have  been  changed  into 
a  misanthrope.  His  courage  was  neither  showy 
nor  spasmodic ;  it  was  the  highest  courage  human- 
ity can  exhibit ;  for  the  heaviest  blows  of  circum- 
stance found  and  left  him  upright,  composed,  and 
calm.  He  faced  the  future,  "breast  and  back  as 
either  should  be."  He  feared  only  two  realities: 
God,  whom  he  adored,  and  Sin,  which  he  hated. 

One  of  the  noblest  traits  in  his  character  was 
Generosity.  As  a  master,  he  did  not  forget  that 
he  had  been  an  apprentice ;  he  was  encouraging 
and  kind-hearted,  and  often  gave  financial  assist- 
ance to  the  hands  he  employed.  All  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  constantly  wrote  begging  letters 
to  him,  and  the  number  who  were  unostentatiously 
aided  by  him  was  remarkable.  The  poetaster, 
Aaron  Hill,  repeatedly  shared  his  bounty;  he 
never  seemed  to  grow  weary  of  this  particular  well- 
doing. The  famous  adventuress,  Laetitia  Pilking- 
ton,  whose  correspondence  with  Colley  Gibber 
forms  some  of  the  most  amusing  portions  of  Mrs. 
Barbauld's  volumes,  was  materially  helped  by 
Richardson.  Here  is  an  example  of  one  of  her 
letters  to  him:  "I  believe  it  will  not  greatly  sur- 
prise you  to  hear  that  I  am  quite  broke ;  indeed, 
it  was  what  I  might  naturally  expect,  having  under- 

29 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

taken  trade  without  any  fund  to  carry  it  on ;  and 
whether  I  had  business  or  not,  quarter-day  came." 
The  relations  between  this  clever  and  corrupt 
woman  and  the  pious,  respectable  printer  make 
delightful  reading.  Each  perfectly  understood 
the  other.  In  entreating  Richardson  to  spare 
Clarissa  from  violation,  she  writes,  "Consider,  if 
this  wounds  both  Mr.  Cibber  and  me  (who  neither 
of  us  set  up  for  immaculate  chastity),  what  must 
it  do  with  those  who  possess  that  inestimable 
treasure?" 

At  every  hour,  in  every  season,  the  door  of 
Richardson's  house  was  open  to  all,  either  to 
entertain  his  friends  or  to  relieve  the  needy.  His 
hospitality  knew  no  bounds,  and  we  cannot  be 
sure  that  his  wife,  on  whom  the  burdens  of  house- 
hold management  fell,  always  approved  of  his 
indiscriminate  invitations.  The  worthy  Thomas 
Edwards  spent  his  last  days  in  Richardson's  house, 
and  his  dying  hours  were  cheered  by  his  friend's 
loving  care.  Innumerable  women  frequented  the 
place,  and  wrote  rapturous  epistles  of  its  delecta- 
ble atmosphere.  A  neighbour's  house  suffered  by 
fire;  Richardson  immediately  suggested  that  he 
move  into  his  own  first  floor,  and  stay  as  long  as 
he  wished  ;  once  hearing  of  a  repentant  Magdalen, 
he  wrote:  "Let  her  come  to  us;  she  shall  do  just 
what  she  can,  and  stay  till  she  is  otherwise  provided 

30 


RICHARDSON 

for."  This  astonishing  hospitality,  always  cour- 
teously and  tactfully  proffered,  attracted  wide 
attention.  "I  think  I  see  you,"  a  friend  writes, 
"sitting  at  your  door  like  an  old  patriarch,  and 
inviting  all  who  pass  by  to  come  in."  A  clear 
view  of  the  domestic  circle  may  be  obtained  by 
reading  a  letter  written  by  a  foreign  visitor,  Mr. 
Reich  of  Leipsic. 

"I  arrived  at  London  the  eighth  of  August,  and 
had  not  much  difficulty  in  finding  Mr.  Richardson 
in  this  great  city.  He  gave  me  a  reception  worthy 
of  the  author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa,  and  Grandison ; 
that  is,  with  the  same  heart  which  appears  through- 
out his  works.  .  .  .  Sunday  following,  I  was 
with  him  at  his  country  house,  where  his  family 
was,  with  some  ladies,  acquaintances  of  his  four 
daughters,  who,  with  his  lady,  compose  his  family. 
It  was  there  that  I  saw  beauties  without  affection ; 
wit  without  vanity ;  and  thought  myself  trans- 
ported to  an  enchanted  land.  .  .  . 

"Everything  I  saw,  everything  I  tasted,  recalled 
to  me  the  idea  of  the  golden  age.  Here  are  to  be 
seen  no  counterfeits,  such  as  are  the  offsprings  of 
vanity,  and  the  delight  of  fools.  A  noble  simplicity 
reigns  throughout,  and  elevates  the  soul.  .  .  . 
In  the  middle  of  the  garden,  over  against  the  house, 
we  came  to  a  kind  of  grotto,  where  we  rested 
ourselves.     It  was  in  this  seat  .  .  .  that  Pamela, 

31 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Clarissa,  and  Grandison  received  their  birth; 
I  kissed  the  ink-horn  on  the  side  of  it.  .  .  ,  Mr. 
Richardson  observed  to  me,  that  the  ladies  in 
company  were  all  his  adopted  daughters.  ...  It 
was  necessary,  at  last,  to  quit  that  divine  man.  .  .  . 
He  embraced  me,  and  a  mutual  tenderness  de- 
prived us  of  speech.  He  accompanied  me  with 
his  eyes  as  far  as  he  could :  I  shed  tears." 

More  intimate  friends  noticed  at  times  a  certain 
amount  of  irritability  in  Richardson's  manners, 
but  this  was  largely  excusable  on  account  of  his 
constant  ill-health.  He  suffered  keenly  from  cruel 
nervous  disorders,  so  that  often  he  could  not  raise 
a  glass  to  his  lips,  nor  hold  a  pen,  nor  endure  an- 
noyances with  his  customary  cheerfulness.  A  man 
compelled  to  live  on  a  rigid  diet,  omitting  every- 
thing liquid  and  solid  that  the  stomach  craves, 
can  easily  be  forgiven  occasional  petulance  and  a 
lack  of  boisterous  joviality.  His  vanity  is  by  no 
means  pleasant  to  contemplate,  and  it  is  harder  to 
forget ;  but  a  man  living  in  perpetual  flattery  will 
sooner  or  later  come  to  agree  with  his  worshippers. 
Furthermore,  Richardson  had,  by  his  own  efforts, 
reached  fame  and  fortune  from  an  obscure  origin ; 
and  when  his  praises  resounded  through  all  England 
and  Europe,  he  would  have  been  more  than  mortal 
if  he  had  refrained  from  regarding  his  edifying 
career   with   considerable   complacency.    He  was 

32 


RICHARDSON 

so  admirable  an  illustration  of  his  own  maxims, 
that  he  could  not  help  seeing  it  himself. 

All  his  biographers  and  critics  have  condemned 
his  hostility  to  Fielding  and  Sterne,  but  although, 
in  the  case  of  the  former,  jealousy  and  pride  fanned 
the  flames  of  hatred,  he  inevitably  would  have 
despised  both  men  had  he  never  written  a  line. 
Sterne  simply  disgusted  him ;  and  the  natures 
of  Fielding  and  Richardson  were  as  wide  asunder 
as  the  poles.  Each  had  a  thorough  and  wholly 
natural  contempt  for  the  other.  The  righteous 
indignation  that  Richardson  felt  toward  the 
author  of  Joseph  Andrews  and  Tom  Jones  totally 
blinded  him  to  the  man's  splendid  genius ;  and 
when  we  reflect  that  Fielding's  books  represented 
to  Richardson  exactly  the  vicious  influence  that 
he  had  spent  his  whole  power  and  pains  to  fight, 
and  that  the  success  of  Joseph  Andrews  was  gained 
at  his  expense,  we  cease  to  wonder  that  the  virtu- 
ous printer  failed  to  see  the  bright  side  of  his 
brilliant  contemporary.  Let  him  who  has  always 
rejoiced  at  a  rival's  success  cast  the  first  stone  at 
Richardson.  It  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  the 
good  man  to  find  even  his  friends  admiring  Field- 
ing. "The  girls  are  certainly  fond  of  Tom  Jones,''^ 
cheerfully  writes  Lady  Bradshaigh,  and  she  was 
grieved  that  she  could  not  persuade  Richardson 
to  read  the  book.  He  contented  himself  with 
D  i3 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

the  epigram,  "The  virtues  of  Tom  Jones  are  the 
vices  of  good  men,"  which  was  well  said,  but  only 
half  true.  What  we  must  condemn  is  the  fact 
that  Richardson  spoke  with  brutal  harshness  of 
his  enemy  to  Fielding's  own  sister ;  outraged 
vanity,  jealousy,  and  zeal  for  moraHty,  getting 
the  better  for  once  of  his  natural  courtesy.  She 
seems  indeed  to  have  accepted  this  opinion  as 
final,  and  she  probably  devoutly  wished  that  her 
talented  brother  had  written  a  Pamela  instead  of  a 
parody ;  for  she  never  wavered  in  her  devotion  to 
the  printer.  Some  things  are  apparently  thicker 
than  blood.  We  smile  at  Richardson's  calmly 
assigning  Fielding's  works  to  obhvion,  and  speak- 
ing of  their  popularity  as  only  ephemeral ;  but  he 
forced  himself  to  beHeve  that  such  was  the  truth. 

In  summing  up  his  character,  we  find  in  his 
favour.  Prudence,  Honesty,  Chastity,  Generosity, 
Hospitality,  Courage,  and  many  of  the  fruits  of 
the  Spirit;  against  him  we  find  Vanity,  Jealousy, 
Formality,  and  occasional  Irritability.  This  bal- 
ance sheet  exhibits  as  creditable  a  moral  showing, 
as  did  his  accounts  at  Salisbury  Court  from  the 
financial  point  of  view.  Let  us  take  another  look 
at  his  household,  with  the  eyes  of  a  frequent 
feminine  visitor : 

"My  first  recollection  of  him  is  in  his  house  in 
the  centre  of  Salisbury-square,  or  Salisbury-court, 

34 


RICHARDSON 

as  it  was  then  called ;  and  of  being  admitted,  as  a 
playful  child,  into  his  study,  where  I  have  often 
seen  Dr.  Young,  and  others ;  and  where  I  was 
generally  caressed,  and  rewarded  with  biscuits  or 
bonbons  of  some  kind  or  other,  and  sometimes 
with  books,  for  which  he,  and  some  more  of  my 
friends,  kindly  encouraged  a  taste,  even  at  that 
early  age,  which  has  adhered  to  me  all  my  life 
long,  and  continues  to  be  the  solace  of  many  a 
painful  hour.  .  .  . 

"  The  piety,  order,  decorum,  and  strict  regularity, 
that  prevailed  in  his  family,  were  of  infinite  use  to 
train  the  mind  to  good  habits,  and  to  depend  upon 
its  own  resources.  It  has  been  one  of  the  means, 
which,  under  the  blessing  of  God,  has  enabled  me 
to  dispense  with  the  enjoyment  of  what  the  world 
calls  pleasures,  such  as  are  found  in  crowds ;  and 
actually  to  relish  and  prefer  the  calm  delights  of 
retirement  and  books.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Richard- 
son arose,  the  beautiful  Psalms  in  Smith's  Devo- 
tions were  read  responsively  in  the  nursery,  by 
herself,  and  daughters,  standing  in  a  circle :  only 
the  two  eldest  were  allowed  to  breakfast  with  her, 
and  whatever  company  happened  to  be  in  the 
house,  for  they  were  seldom  without.  After 
breakfast  the  younger  ones  read  to  her  in  turns 
the  Psalms,  and  lessons  for  the  day.  .  .  .  These 
are  childish  and  trifling  anecdotes,   and  savour, 

35 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

perhaps  you  may  think,  too  much  of  egotism. 
They  certainly  can  be  of  no  further  use  to  you, 
than  as  they  mark  the  extreme  benevolence,  con- 
descension, and  kindness,  of  this  exalted  genius, 
toward  young  people ;  for,  in  general  society,  I 
know  that  he  has  been  accused  of  being  of  few 
words,  and  of  a  particularly  reserved  turn.  He 
was,  however,  all  his  life-time,  the  patron  and 
protector  of  the  female  sex.  .  .  .  Most  of  the 
ladies  that  resided  much  at  his  house  acquired 
a  certain  degree  of  fastidiousness  and  delicate  re- 
finement, which,  though  amiable  in  itself,  rather  dis- 
qualified them  from  appearing  in  general  society, 
to  the  advantage  that  might  have  been  expected, 
and  rendered  an  intercourse  with  the  world  un- 
easy to  themselves,  giving  a  peculiar  shiness  and 
reserve  to  their  whole  address,  of  which  habits 
his  own  daughters  partook,  in  a  degree  that  has 
been  thought  by  some,  a  little  to  obscure  those 
really  valuable  quaHfications  and  talents  they 
undoubtedly  possessed.  Yet,  this  was  supposed 
to  be  owing  more  to  Mrs.  Richardson  than  to 
him ;  who,  though  a  traiy  good  woman,  had  high 
and  Harlowean.  notions  of  parental  authority,  and 
kept  the  ladies  in  such  order,  and  at  such  a  dis- 
tance, that  he  often  lamented,  as  I  have  been 
told  by  my  mother,  that  they  were  not  more 
open  and  conversable  with  him.  .  .  .    His  benev- 

36 


RICHARDSON 

olence  was  unbounded,  as  his  manner  of  diffus- 
ing it  was  delicate  and  refined." 

Surely  no  one  can  deny  to  Richardson  the 
highest  of  all  titles  —  a  good  man. 

If  a  man  be  known  by  the  company  he  keeps, 
our  knowledge  of  Richardson  by  this  test  would 
be  too  general  to  have  any  value,  for  he  kept  all 
kinds.  It  is  often  said,  especially  by  those  who 
have  never  read  his  books,  that  Richardson  was 
a  narrow-minded  man,  as  if  any  great  novelist 
who  makes  a  universal  appeal  to  human  nature 
could  possibly  be  narrow !  The  real  width  of 
his  sympathies  is  shown  by  the  kaleidoscopic 
variety  of  character  displayed  by  the  guests  at 
North  End.  From  the  pious  author  of  Night 
Thoughts,  to  the  irrepressible  Weltkind  Colley 
Gibber  —  these  limits  exhibit  the  generous  size 
of  Richardson's  mantle  of  charity.  Fielding  he 
had  every  reason  to  hate ;  and  doubtless  he  hated 
him ;  yet  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger.  It  is 
sometimes  remarked,  that  Richardson's  attitude 
toward  Fielding  was  hypocritical,  for  while  affect- 
ing to  despise  Fielding's  character,  he  allowed 
Gibber  to  enter  within  his  gates.  It  should  be 
remembered  that  he  regarded  the  books  of  Field- 
ing as  dangerously  immoral  in  their  influence ; 
while  Gibber,  though  an  unblushing  sinner  him- 

37 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

self,    had    laboured    long,    with    powerful    effect, 
toward  the  moral  elevation  of  the  stage. 

As  it  was  the  ungovernable  passion  for  pen,  ink, 
and  paper  that  has  preserved  to  us  the  thoughts 
of  Pamela  and  Clarissa,  so  the  story  of  Richard- 
son's friendships  is  simply  the  story  of  his  corre- 
spondence. In  letter-writing  he  practised  what 
he  preached,  and  as  he  himself  remarked,  he 
wrote  so  much,  he  scarcely  had  any  time  to  read. 
One  of  his  early  correspondents  was  Aaron  Hill,  a 
well-known  figure  in  the  dynasty  of  Pope,  who 
hated  the  reigning  sovereign  as  only  an  unsuccess- 
ful man  can  hate  the  popular  idol.  He  tried  to 
persuade  himself  and  others,  that  Posterity,  the 
friend  of  all  unrecognised  Uterary  merit,  would 
judge  aright  between  the  author  of  the  Dunciad 
and  his  victim ;  and  that  to  the  men  of  the  twen- 
tieth century.  Pope  would  be  a  forgotten  name, 
while  the  works  of  Aaron  Hill  would  embellish 
every  anthology.  Meanwhile,  this  neglected  genius 
had  to  live,  as  Posterity's  name  at  the  foot  of  a 
check  has  no  commercial  value ;  and  Richardson's 
cash  must  have  been  even  more  welcome  to  the 
struggling  poet  than  his  sympathy,  and  Richard- 
son was  ever  free  with  both.  The  printer  even 
forgave  Hill's  surprising  attempt  to  rewrite  Clarissa 
more  briefly,  an  undertaking  which  Hill  jauntily 
began,  and  speedily  abandoned,  for,  as  Mrs.  Bar- 

38 


RICHARDSON 

bauld  sagely  observes,  "He  soon  found  that  he 
should  take  a  great  deal  of  pains  only  to  spoil  it, 
and  the  author  found  it  still  sooner  than  he  did." 
The  pangs  of  hterary  failure  in  Hill's  case  were 
edged  by  his  loss  of  health,  and  the  final  exit  from 
the  planet  of  this  colossal  bore  was  pathetic  in 
the  extreme.  It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that 
Richardson,  who  had  nothing  to  gain  from  Hill's 
friendship,  and  much  to  lose,  should  have  stood 
by  him  as  faithfully  as  though  the  poor  fellow 
were  really  all  he  claimed  to  be. 

There  was  another  struggling  genius  in  London 
in  those  days  who  had  all  of  Hill's  energy,  all  of 
Hill's  misfortunes  of  early  neglect  and  bad  health, 
but  who  finally  forced  from  the  age  the  recogni- 
tion he  was  bound  to  have,  and  whom  Posterity  has 
treated  with  constantly  increasing  favour.  This 
was  Samuel  Johnson.  When  Richardson  first  met 
him,  the  future  Doctor,  Dictionary-maker,  and  heir 
to  Pope's  throne  was  more  obscure  than  Hill,  cursed 
by  ill-health,  and  often  too  poor  to  secure  a  night's 
lodging  except  in  jail.  As  Miss  Thomson  says,  * '  The 
days  of  his  fame  were  still  to  come,  and  Richardson's 
attitude  toward  him  at  first  was  that  of  a  generous 
and  successful  man  of  letters  to  a  younger  aspirant 
for  literary  fame."  Johnson's  Rambler  appeared  in 
March  1750,  and  was  by  no  means  wildly  popular. 
Richardson,  however,   greeted  it  with  warm  ap- 

39 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

probation,  and  Number  97,  the  issue  for  Tuesday, 
19  February  1751,  appeared  with  the  following 
introduction  by  Johnson : 

"The  Reader  is  indebted  for  this  Day's  Enter- 
tainment, to  an  author  from  whom  the  Age  has 
received  greater  Favours,  who  has  enlarged  the 
Knowledge  of  human  Nature,  and  taught  the 
Passions  to  move  at  the  Command  of  Virtue." 

Richardson's  soUtary  contribution  to  the  Rambler 
greatly  extended  its  circulation  for  that  one  day. 
In  1756,  Richardson  gave  even  more  tangible 
proof  of  his  friendship  by  assisting  financially 
the  debt-embarrassed  hero,  or  as  Mrs.  Barbauld 
remarks,  "He  had  the  honour  to  bail  Dr.  Johnson." 
In  return  for  the  six  guineas  advanced  by  the 
author  of  Clarissa  to  the  author  of  the  Dictionary, 
the  following  letter  was  written : 

"Dear  Sir, 

I  return  you  my  sincerest  thanks  for  the  favour  which 
you  were  pleased  to  do  me  two  nights  ago. 

Be  pleased  to  accept  of  this  little  book,  which  is  all  that 
I  have  published  this  winter.     The  inflammation  is  come 
again  into  my  eye,  so  that  I  can  write  very  Uttle. 
I  am 
Sir, 
Your  most  obliged 
and 
mpst  humble  Servant 
Sam  Johnson 
Tuesday." 
40 


RICHARDSON 

Johnson  brought  Mrs.  Williams,  one  of  his  house- 
hold menagerie,  to  call  on  Richardson  at  North 
End,  and  Miss  Mulso  wrote  pleasantly  of  John- 
son's kindness  to  the  poor  creature.  That  a  man 
of  Johnson's  sturdy  sincerity  and  robust  virility 
so  highly  admired  and  respected  Richardson,  is 
additional  proof  of  the  solid  qualities  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  novelist. 

The  poet  Young  was  for  many  years  an  intimate 
friend  of  Richardson,  as  we  see  by  their  corre- 
spondence, which  began  about  1750.  Young's 
letters  are  as  solemn  as  his  verses,  and  are  largely 
taken  up  with  predicting  his  own  speedy  death, 
which,  however,  Richardson  awaited  in  vain,  as 
the  aged  poet  survived  him.  Death  seemed  un- 
wilUng  to  take  from  the  world  a  man  who  so  viv- 
idly portrayed  his  terrors.  Young's  remarks  on 
Richardson's  novels,  particularly  Clarissa,  form 
the  most  interesting  and  valuable  part  of  the 
correspondence. 

It  is  small  matter  for  wonder  that  Richardson 
tolerated  the  company  of  Colley  Cibber,  for  no 
one  can  read  the  delightful  autobiography  of  the 
latter  without  feeling  the  charm  of  the  author's 
personaHty.  Even  his  egregious  vanity  is  irre- 
sistibly attractive,  and  his  wonderful  flow  of 
spirits  and  vivacious  cheerfulness  must  have 
made  him  a  welcome  visitor  at  many  firesides. 

41 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Cibber  went  wild  with  excitement  over  the  stories 
of  Richardson,  and  such  enthusiastic  appreciation 
from  the  Laureate  undoubtedly  affected  the  vanity 
of  the  noveh'st.  No  reader  of  Stevenson's  great 
essay,  jEs  Triplex,  can  possibly  withhold  his 
admiration  from  Colley  Cibber,  who,  in  his  eigh- 
tieth year,  laughed  heartily  at  his  success  in  baf- 
fling the  approaches  of  Death.  The  unabashed 
old  profligate  celebrated  the  Christmas  Day  of 
his  eightieth  year  by  writing  the  following  letter 
to  the  apostle  of  domestic  virtue : 

"Sir, 

Though  Death  has  been  cooling  his  heels  at  my  door 
these  three  weeks,  I  have  not  had  time  to  see  him.  The 
daily  conversation  of  my  friends  has  kept  me  so  agreeably 
alive,  that  I  have  not  passed  my  time  better  a  great  while. 
If  you  have  a  mind  to  make  one  of  us,  I  will  order  Death  to 
come  another  day.  To  be  serious,  I  long  to  see  you,  and 
hope  you  wiU  take  the  first  opportunity :  and  so  with  as 
merry  a  Christmas,  as  merry  a  new  year,  as  your  heart  can 
hope  for,  I  am, 

Your  real  Friend  and  Servant, 

C.  Cibber." 

Who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have 
had  so  much  blood  in  him  ?  He  lasted  seven 
years  longer,  and  was  apparently  in  excellent 
health  three  hours  before  his  death,  which  came 
finally  without  a  warning ;  as  though  weary  of 
trying  to  frighten  his  victim  by  faces.  Death  had 
at  last  suddenly  seized  him  from  behind. 

42 


RICHARDSON 

Quite  the  opposite  in  temperament  was  the 
solemn  sonneteer  Thomas  Edwards,  the  author 
of  Canons  of  Criticism.  His  letters  contain  many 
interesting  literary  allusions,  especially  to  the 
poems  of  Spenser,  which  he  warmly  admired.  He 
was  one  of  the  early  apostles  of  Spenser  in  the 
beginnings  of  the  romantic  movement  in  England, 
and  is  interesting  also  in  connection  with  the 
revival  of  the  Sonnet  as  a  literary  form.  Since 
1660  practically  no  English  sonnets  were  written 
until  the  fifth  decade  of  the  next  century.  Ed- 
wards, however,  from  1748  to  1754,  made  the 
sonnet  his  chief  form  of  poetical  expression,  and 
thus  unconsciously  earned  for  himself  a  much 
more  important  place  in  English  literary  history 
than  he  obtained  by  his  learned  Canons.  He 
was  a  sad  and  lonely  man,  devout  and  deeply 
religious,  and  his  friendship  with  the  novelist  was 
perhaps  the  brightest  part  of  his  life.  He  died,  as 
has  been  mentioned,  at  Richardson's  house. 

But  while  the  novelist  was  admired  and  respected 
by  many  men  of  the  day,  his  adorers  were  chiefly 
among  women,  and  to  them  he  naturally  unlocked 
his  heart.  The  letters  to  his  feminine  admirers 
show  all  sides  of  the  novelist's  character,  and  the 
reasons  for  his  close  intimacy  with  so  many  in- 
telligent women.  The  letters  to  and  from  Sara 
Fielding    are    particularly    interesting;     she    was 

43 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

often  entertained  at  his  house,  and,  as  has  been 
seen,  bore  with  meekness  Richardson's  wholesale 
condemnation  of  her  brother. 

The  most  brilliant  and  clever  woman  whom 
Richardson  knew  was  Lady  Bradshaigh,  and 
the  frankness  with  which  the  two  friends  argued 
on  all  kinds  of  vital  themes  makes  interesting 
reading.  This  correspondence  began  in  a  way 
that  is  rather  remarkable.  After  perusing  the 
first  four  volumes  of  Clarissa,  this  lady  was  horri- 
fied at  the  rumour  that  the  story  was  to  end  tragi- 
cally ;  she  therefore,  labouring  under  great  excite- 
ment, wrote  to  Richardson  under  the  assumed 
name  of  Belfour,  beseeching  him  to  spare  his 
heroine  and  to  answer  her  letter  by  printing  a 
few  lines  in  the  Whitehall  Evening  Post.  This 
being  done,  a  correspondence  began,  which  con- 
tinued for  years ;  but  it  was  a  long  time  before 
Richardson  met  his  fair  critic,  or  knew  her  real 
name.  It  was  to  her  that  Richardson  wrote  the 
famous  pen-portrait  of  himself,  that  she  might 
be  able  to  recognise  him  while  walking  in  the 
Park.  With  true  feminine  waywardness,  she 
made  the  great  man  trace  and  retrace  many  steps 
before  she  granted  him  the  pleasure  of  an  inter- 
view ;  and  he  finally  obtained  a  clew  to  her  name 
only  by  accident.  They  did  not  meet  in  mutual 
recognition  until  March  1750. 

44 


RICHARDSON 

Their  intimacy  had  much  of  the  excitement  of 
an  intrigue,  without  any  of  its  guilt ;  for  though 
she  treated  the  respectable  printer  with  charming 
coquetry,  she  loved  her  husband  dearly,  and  her 
spirited  description  of  her  home  life  and  duties 
shows  her  to  have  been  a  womanly  woman  and  a 
model  wife.  Her  shrewd  insight  into  Richard- 
son's peculiar  characteristics  is  repeatedly  evi- 
dent ;  she  knew  he  did  not  like  to  hear  certain 
authors  praised,  even  when  he  stoutly  affirmed 
that  he  did.  The  long  discussions  the  two  friends 
had  about  subjects  so  abstract  as  polygamy, 
and  so  concrete  as  rakes,  are  well  worth  reading ; 
and  her  remark  that  rakes  are  often  more  popular 
than  good  men,  not  because  of  their  wickedness, 
but  because  of  their  superior  appearance  in  society, 
has  more  truth  than  unpopular  good  men  will 
sometimes  allow. 

When  she  first  wrote  to  the  novelist,  she  was 
about  forty  years  old,  and  later  she  described  her 
personal  appearance  as  follows,  in  order  that  he 
might  recognise  the  original  should  he  happen  to 
meet  her  on  the  street.  "Middle-aged,  middle- 
sized,  a  degree  above  plump,  brown  as  an  oak 
wainscot,  a  good  deal  of  country  red  in  her  cheeks, 
altogether  a  plain  woman,  but  nothing  remarkably 
forbidding,"  a  description  that  if  we  may  judge  by 
her  portrait,  rather  underestimates  her  charms. 

45 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

The  most  beautiful  letters  that  Richardson  ever 
received  came  from  a  woman  whom  he  never  saw. 
This  was  Mts.  Klopstock,  the  young  wife  of  the 
famous  German  author  of  the  Messiah.  In  the 
most  naive  and  intimate  language,  its  charm 
heightened  by  her  imperfect  English,  this  child 
of  God  told  Richardson  the  whole  story  of  her 
love  for  Klopstock,  and  the  overwhelming  happi- 
ness of  her  married  life  : 

"After  having  seen  him  two  hours,  I  was  obliged 
to  pass  the  evening  in  company,  which  never  had 
been  so  wearisome  to  me.  I  could  not  speak,  I 
could  not  play,  I  thought  I  saw  nothing  but  Klop- 
stock. I  saw  him  the  next  day  and  the  follow- 
ing, and  we  were  very  seriously  friends.  But  the 
fourth  day  he  departed.  It  was  a  strong  hour, 
the  hour  of  his  departure !  He  wrote  soon  after, 
and  from  that  time  on,  our  correspondence  began 
to  be  a  very  diligent  one.  I  sincerely  believed 
my  love  to  be  friendship.  I  spoke  with  my  friends 
of  nothing  but  Klopstock,  and  showed  his  letters. 
They  raillied  at  me,  and  said  I  was  in  love.  I 
raillied  them  again  and  said  that  they  must  have 
a  very  friendshipless  heart,  if  they  had  no  idea  of 
friendship  to  a  man  as  well  as  to  a  woman.  Thus 
it  continued  eight  months,  in  which  time  my  friends 
found  as  much  love  in  Klopstock's  letters  as  in 
me.     I   perceived   it   likewise,    but   I   would   not 

46 


RICHARDSON 

believe.  At  the  last,  Klopstock  said  plainly,  that 
he  loved ;  and  I  startled  as  for  a  wrong  thing.  I 
answered,  that  it  was  no  love,  but  friendship,  as 
it  was  what  I  felt  for  him ;  we  had  not  seen  one 
another  enough  to  love  (as  if  love  must  have 
more  time  than  friendship !) .  This  was  sincerely 
my  meaning,  and  I  had  this  meaning  till  Klop- 
stock came  again  to  Hamburg.  This  he  did  a 
year  after  we  had  seen  one  another  the  first  time. 
We  saw,  we  were  friends,  we  loved ;  and  we  be- 
lieved that  we  loved ;  and  a  short  time  after  I 
could  even  tell  Klopstock  that  I  loved.  [In  two 
years  they  were  married.]  I  am  the  happiest 
wife  in  the  world.  In  some  few  months  it  will  be 
four  years  that  I  am  so  happy,  and  still  I  dote 
upon  Klopstock  as  if  he  was  my  bridegroom. 

"  If  you  knew  my  husband,  you  would  not 
wonder.  .  .  .  But  I  dare  not  to  speak  of  my 
husband  ;   I  am  all  raptures  when  I  do  it !" 

And  in  view  of  the  tragic  outcome  of  her  hopes, 
can  we  find  anywhere  in  the  annals  of  domestic 
life  a  letter  that  makes  so  irresistible,  because  so 
unconscious,  an  appeal  to  our  hearts  ? 

"  Have  you  not  guessed  that  I,  summing  up 
all  my  happinesses,  and  not  speaking  of  children, 
had  none  ?  Yes,  Sir,  this  has  been  my  only  wish 
ungratified  for  these  four  years.  I  have  been 
more  than  once  unhappy  with  disappointments, 

47 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

but  yet,  thanks,  thanks  to  God !  I  am  in  full 
hope  to  be  mother  in  the  month  of  November. 
The  little  preparations  for  my  child  and  child-bed 
(and  they  are  so  dear  to  me !)  have  taken  so  much 
time,  that  I  could  not  answer  your  letter.  .  .  . 
My  husband  has  been  obliged  to  make  a  Uttle 
voyage  alone  to  Copenhagen.  He  is  yet  absent 
—  a  cloud  over  my  happiness !  He  will  soon 
return.  .  .  .  But  what  does  that  help?  He  is 
yet  equally  absent !  We  write  to  each  other  every 
post.  .  .  .  But  what  are  letters  to  presence  ?  — 
But  I  will  speak  no  more  of  this  little  cloud ;  I 
will  only  tell  my  happiness !  But  I  cannot  tell 
how  I  rejoice !  A  son  of  my  dear  Klopstock ! 
Oh,  when  shall  I  have  him !  —  It  is  long  since 
that  I  have  made  the  remark,  that  geniuses  do 
not  engender  geniuses.  No  children  at  all,  bad 
sons,  or,  at  the  most,  lovely  daughters,  like  you 
and  Milton.  But  a  daughter  or  a  son,  only  with 
a  good  heart,  without  genius,  I  will  nevertheless 
love  dearly.  .  .  .  When  I  have  my  husband  and 
my  child,  I  will  write  you  more  (if  God  gives  me 
health  and  life).  You  will  think  that  I  shall  be 
not  a  mother  only,  but  nurse  also;  though  the 
latter  (thank  God !  that  the  former  is  not  so  too) 
is  quite  against  fashion  and  good-breeding,  and 
though  nobody  can  think  it  possible  to  be  always 
with  the  child  at  home  !" 

48 


RICHARDSON 

The  next  letter  Richardson  received  was  by 
another  hand,  and  began,  "As  perhaps  you  do 
not  yet  know  that  one  of  your  fair  correspondents, 
Mrs.  Klopstock,  died  in  a  very  dreadful  manner 
in  child-bed,  I  think  myself  obliged  to  acquaint 
you  with  this  most  melancholy  accident." 

As  we  read  the  artless  English  of  this  young 

wife,  the  interval  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 

is  nothing,  and  we  stand  by  her  grave  as  though 

it  were  freshly  made. 

"Everywhere 
I  see  in  the  world  the  intellect  of  man, 
That  sword,  the  energy  his  subtle  spear, 
The  knowledge  which  defends  him  like  a  shield  — 
Everywhere ;  but  they  make  not  up,  I  think, 
The  marvel  of  a  soul  like  thine,  earth's  flower 
She  holds  up  to  the  softened  gaze  of  God  !" 

Maturity  in  years  and  experience  seems  to  be 
as  necessary  to  the  successful  novelist  as  it  is 
superfluous  to  the  poet.  Defoe  was  fifty-eight 
when  he  wrote  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  it  was  his 
first  important  novel.  Richardson  had  passed 
the  half-century  mark,  not  only  with  no  prospect 
of  a  literary  reputation,  but  without  having  made 
an  attempt  to  secure  one.  He  had  spent  his  life 
printing  the  thoughts  and  language  of  other  minds. 
In  his  fifty-first  year,  he  turned  for  a  moment 
his  attention  from  the  outside  of  literature  to  the 
inside.  In  1739,  the  publishers  Rivington  and 
E  49 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Osborne  requested  him  to  compose  a  book  of 
familiar  letters.  It  was  to  be  a  kind  of  manual  of 
epistolary  etiquette,  showing  the  proper  forms 
for  all  circumstances  and  emergencies,  seasoned 
with  Richardson's  inevitable  homiletics.  Could 
a  respectable  man  possibly  begin  his  Hterary 
career  more  humbly?  Miss  Thomson  describes 
this  little  book,  as  it  finally  appeared,  as  follows : 
"The  title-page  sets  forth  its  advantage  in  'direct- 
ing not  only  the  requisite  style  and  forms  to  be 
observed  in  writing  familiar  letters,  but  how  to  think 
and  act  justly  and  prudently  in  the  common  con- 
cerns of  human  life.'  This  purpose  is  further 
emphasised  in  the  preface,  which  tells  us  that  the 
author  has  endeavoured  to  point  out  the  duties 
of  masters,  servants,  fathers,  children,  and  young 
men  entering  the  world.  But  especially  —  and 
this  is  characteristic  of  the  future  novelist  —  he 
has  given  much  attention  to  the  subject  of  court- 
ship. .  .  .  Love  is  his  predominant  theme,  but 
he  treats  it  always  as  a  passion  to  be  sternly  con- 
trolled and  kept  within  bounds."  This  book, 
interrupted  by  the  composition  of  Pamela,  he 
completed  later,  and  it  was  published  anony- 
mously :  not  till  after  his  death,  if  an  Irish  bull 
may  be  permitted,  did  Richardson  allow  his  name 
to  formally  sanction  it.  That  it  fully  accomplished 
its  purpose  is  evident  from  its  great  popularity 

50 


RICHARDSON 

below  stairs ;  it  was  hungrily  read  by  house-maids 
and  footmen,  and  according  to  Mrs.  Barbauld, 
it  "not  infrequently  detained  the  eyes  of  the 
mistress." 

To-day,  however,  it  is  a  forgotten  work,  and 
instead  of  being  read  by  the  class  of  people  for 
whom  it  was  designed,  it  is  known  only  to  students 
of  fiction,  and  interests  them  only  because  it  was 
the  stalking-horse  to  Pamela.  For  it  was  while 
writing  this  useful  but  unpretentious  book  that  a 
fortunate  idea  occurred  to  the  author.  Doubt- 
less surprised  at  his  own  readiness  in  invention, 
and  facility  in  composition,  Richardson  conceived 
the  plan  of  creating,  with  materials  all  ready  at 
hand,  an  original  work  of  art.  "In  the  progress 
of  it,  writing  two  or  three  letters  to  instruct  hand- 
some girls,  who  were  obliged  to  go  out  to  service, 
as  we  phrase  it,  how  to  avoid  the  snares  that 
might  be  laid  against  their  virtue ;  the  above 
story  [see  below]  recurred  to  my  thoughts :  And 
hence  sprung  Pamela." 

As  Richardson  has  given  with  such  obliging 
fulness  of  detail  the  source  and  manner  of  com- 
position of  his  first  novel,  we  cannot  do  better 
than  transcribe  his  own  words  in  full,  from  a  letter 
to  Aaron  Hill. 

"I  will  now  write  to  you  your  question — ■ 
Whether  there  was  any  original  groundwork  of 

51 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

fact,    for    the    general    foundation    of    Pamela's 
story. 

"About  twenty-five  years  ago,  a  gentleman, 
with  whom  I  was  intimately  acquainted  (but 
who,  alas !  is  now  no  more !)  met  with  such  a 
story  as  that  of  Pamela,  in  one  of  the  summer 
tours  which  he  used  to  take  ...  he  asked  who 
was  the  owner  of  a  fine  house,  .  .  .  which  he  had 
passed  by.  ...  It  was  a  fine  house,  the  land- 
lord said.  The  owner  was  Mr.  B.,  a  gentleman 
of  large  estate  in  more  counties  than  one.  That 
his  and  his  lady's  history  engaged  the  attention 
of  everyone  who  came  that  way,  and  put  a  stop 
to  all  other  enquiries,  though  the  house  and  gar- 
dens were  well  worth  seeing,  the  lady,  he  said, 
was  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in  England;  but 
the  qualities  of  her  mind  had  no  equal :  beneficent, 
prudent,  and  equally  beloved  and  admired  by 
high  and  low.  That  she  had  been  taken  at  twelve 
years  of  age,  for  the  sweetness  of  her  manners  and 
modesty,  and  for  an  understanding  above  her 
years,  by  Mr.  B.'s  mother,  a  truly  worthy  lady, 
to  wait  on  her  person.  Her  parents,  ruined  by 
suretiships,  were  remarkably  honest  and  pious, 
and  had  instilled  into  their  daughter's  mind,  the 
best  principles.  When  their  misfortunes  hap- 
pened first,  they  attempted  a  little  school,  in  their 
village,  where  they  were  much  beloved,  he  teach- 

52 


RICHARDSON 

ing  writing  and  the  first  rules  of  arithmetic  to 
boys ;  his  wife,  plain  needle-work  to  girls,  and 
to  knit  and  spin ;  but  that  it  answered  not :  and, 
when  the  lady  took  their  child,  the  industrious 
man  earned  his  bread  by  day  labour,  and  the 
lowest  kind  of  husbandry. 

"That  the  girl,  improving  daily  in  beauty, 
modesty,  and  genteel  and  good  behaviour,  by  the 
time  she  was  fifteen,  engaged  the  attention  of 
her  lady's  son,  a  young  gentleman  of  free  prin- 
ciples, who,  on  her  lady's  death,  attempted,  by 
all  manner  of  temptations  and  devices  to  seduce 
her.  That  she  had  recourse  to  as  many  innocent 
stratagems  to  escape  the  snares  laid  for  her  virtue ; 
once,  however,  in  despair,  having  been  near  drown- 
ing; that,  at  last,  her  noble  resistance,  watchful- 
ness, and  excellent  qualities,  subdued  him,  and 
he  thought  fit  to  make  her  his  wife.  That  she 
behaved  herself  with  so  much  dignity,  sweetness, 
and  humility,  that  she  made  herself  beloved  of 
everybody,  and  even  by  his  relations,  who,  at 
first,  despised  her,  and  now  had  the  blessings  both 
of  rich  and  poor,  and  the  love  of  her  husband. 

"The  gentleman  who  told  me  this,  added,  that 
he  had  the  curiosity  to  stay  in  the  neighbourhood 
from  Friday  to  Sunday,  that  he  might  see  this 
happy  couple  at  church,  from  which  they  never 
absented  themselves;    that,  in  short,  he  did  see 

S3 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

them ;  that  her  deportment  was  all  sweetness, 
ease,  and  dignity  mingled ;  that  he  never  saw  a 
lovelier  woman :  that  her  husband  was  as  fine  a 
man,  and  seemed  even  proud  of  his  choice :  and 
that  she  attracted  the  respects  of  the  persons  of 
rank  present,  and  had  the  blessings  of  the  poor. 
—  The  relater  of  the  story  told  me  all  this  with 
transport. 

"This,  Sir,  was  the  foundation  of  Pamela's 
story ;  but  little  did  I  think  to  make  a  story  of  it 
for  the  press.     That  was  owing  to  this  occasion. 

"Mr.  Rivington  and  Mr.  Osborne,  whose  names 
are  on  the  title-page,  had  long  been  urging  me  to 
give  them  a  little  book  (which,  they  said,  they 
were  often  asked  after)  of  familiar  letters  on  the 
useful  concerns  in  common  life ;  and,  at  last,  I 
yielded  to  their  importunity,  and  began  to  recol- 
lect such  subjects  as  I  thought  would  be  useful  in 
such  a  design,  and  formed  several  letters  accord- 
ingly. And,  among  the  rest,  I  thought  of  giving 
one  or  two  as  cautions  to  young  folks  circum- 
stanced as  Pamela  was.  Little  did  I  think,  at 
first,  of  making  one,  much  less  two  volumes  of 
it.  But,  when  I  began  to  recollect  what  had,  so 
many  years  before,  been  told  me  by  my  friend, 
I  thought  the  story,  if  written  in  an  easy  and 
natural  manner,  suitably  to  the  simplicity  of  it, 
might  possibly  introduce  a  new  species  of  writing, 

54 


RICHARDSON 

that  might  possibly  turn  young  people  into  a 
course  of  reading  different  from  the  pomp  and 
parade  of  romance-writing,  and  dismissing  the 
improbable  and  marvellous,  with  which  novels 
generally  abound,  might  tend  to  promote  the 
cause  of  religion  and  virtue.  I  therefore  gave 
way  to  enlargement  and  so  Pamela  became  as 
you  see  her.  But  so  little  did  I  hope  for  the  ap- 
probation of  judges,  that  I  had  not  the  courage 
to  send  the  two  volumes  to  your  ladies,  until  I 
found  the  books  were  well  received  by  the  public. 
"While  I  was  writing  the  two  volumes,  my 
worthy-hearted  wife,  and  the  young  lady  who  is 
with  us,  when  I  had  read  them  some  part  of  the 
story,  which  I  had  begun  without  their  knowing 
it,  used  to  come  into  my  little  closet  every  night, 
with  —  '  Have  you  any  more  of  Pamela,  Mr.  R.  ? 
We  are  come  to  hear  a  little  more  of  Pamela,'  &c. 
This  encouraged  me  to  prosecute  it,  which  I  did 
so  diligently,  through  all  my  other  business,  that, 
by  a  memorandum  on  my  copy,  I  began  it  Nov.  lo, 
1739,  and  finished  it  Jan.  10,  1739-40.  ...  If 
justly  low  were  my  thoughts  of  this  little  history, 
you  will  wonder  how  it  came  by  such  an  assum- 
ing and  very  impudent  preface.  It  was  thus  :  — 
The  approbation  of  these  two  female  friends,  who 
were  so  kind  as  to  give  me  prefaces  for  it,  but 
which  were   much   too   long  and   circumstantial, 

55 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

as  I  thought,  made  me  resolve  myself  on  writing  a 
preface :  I,  therefore,  spirited  by  the  good  opinion 
of  these  four,  and  knowing  that  the  judgments  of 
nine  parts  of  ten  readers  were  but  in  hanging- 
sleeves,  struck  a  bold  stroke  in  the  preface  you 
see,  having  the  umbrage  of  the  editor's  character 
to  screen  myself  behind  —  And  thus,  Sir,  all  is 
out." 

With  no  author's  name  on  the  title-page,  and 
unheralded  by  the  puffery  of  publishers,  Pamela 
appeared,  in  two  modest  volumes,  in  November 
1740.  The  surprisingly  short  time  in  which  it 
was  written  —  two  months  —  is  a  sufficient  illus- 
tration of  Richardson's  speed  in  composition. 
His  genius,  kindled  so  late  in  life,  blazed  with  all 
the  brilliance  of  youth ;  and  the  fact  that  in  sixty 
days  so  extraordinary  a  work,  wholly  original  in 
method,  could  be  begun  and  completed,  makes  us 
wonder  at  the  long,  silent,  unillumined  years  of 
patient  mechanical  industry,  which  preceded  his 
first  essay  at  literature.  The  success  of  the  book 
was  instantaneous.  Society  women  were  com- 
pelled to  read  it,  as  it  was  "the  book  everyone 
was  talking  of."  It  formed  the  chief  staple  of 
conversation  at  all  the  popular  resorts.  Old 
and  young,  grave  and  gay,  united  in  a  shout  of 
universal  applause.  The  Reverend  Dr.  Slocock, 
of  the  old  church  of  St.   Saviour's,   Southwark, 

56 


RICHARDSON 

publicly  indorsed  it  from  his  pulpit.  This  gave 
the  final  seal  of  approval  to  all  who  had  hoped, 
but  hardly  dared,  to  discuss  a  work  of  fiction  in 
public.  Anxious  mothers  then  allowed  their 
daughters  to  read  the  new  book.  Pope  got  the 
better  for  once  of  his  habitual  jealousy,  and  spoke 
highly  of  Pamela's  powerful  moral  influence.  We 
may  give  an  illustration  of  the  keen  joy  with  which 
the  happy  denouement  was  greeted.  "At  Slough, 
near  Windsor,  the  inhabitants  used  to  gather 
around  the  village  forge  while  the  blacksmith 
read  the  story  aloud.  As  soon  as  he  came  to  the 
place  where  the  fate  of  the  heroine  is  decided  by  a 
happy  marriage,  his  hearers  were  so  excited  that 
they  cheered  for  joy,  ran  for  the  church  keys,  and 
rang  the  bells  to  give  expression  to  their  gladness." 
In  publishing  the  book,  Richardson  had  as- 
sumed to  be  only  the  editor ;  but  his  authorship 
became  known  almost  immediately.  He  was 
overwhelmed  with  letters  of  congratulation  and 
enquiry.  One  enthusiast  remarked,  "If  all  other 
books  were  to  be  burnt,  this  book,  next  to  the 
Bible,  ought  to  be  preserved."  Another  deter- 
mined to  bring  up  his  son  in  the  paths  of  virtue 
by  giving  him  Pamela  just  as  soon  as  he  should 
be  able  to  read,  "a  choice  of  books  for  a  youth," 
comments  Mrs.  Barbauld,  "which  we,  at  present, 
[1804]  should  be  very  much  surprised  at." 

57 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Aaron  Hill  related  the  following  incident.  A 
lively  little  boy,  lying  unnoticed  in  a  room  while 
Pamela  was  being  read  aloud,  and  apparently 
asleep,  —  "on  a  sudden  we  heard  a  succession  of 
heart-heaving  sobs,  which,  while  he  strove  to  con- 
ceal from  our  notice,  his  little  sides  swelled  as  if 
they  would  burst,  with  the  throbbing  restraint 
of  his  sorrow.  I  turned  his  innocent  face  to  look 
towards  me,  but  his  eyes  were  quite  lost  in  his 
tears ;  which,  running  down  from  his  cheeks  in 
free  currents,  had  formed  two  sincere  little  foun- 
tains on  that  part  of  the  carpet  he  hung  over." 

Nor  were  these  things  revealed  only  to  babes ; 
they  were  not  hidden,  like  an  older  gospel,  from 
the  wise  and  prudent.  All  sorts  of  confidential 
letters  of  enquiry  proceeding  from  serious-minded 
men  and  women,  followed  hard  upon  the  thunders 
of  applause.  The  burden  of  these  epistles  is  the 
familiar  cry  at  the  end  of  a  startling  tale.  Is  it 
true?  Was  there  ever  a  Pamela  in  real  life,  and 
did  Mr.  Richardson  have  the  honour  of  her  ac- 
quaintance? People  immediately  began  to  point 
out  among  their  contemporaries  the  original  of 
the  portrait,  until  Richardson  finally  gave  the 
real  source  of  the  story  in  the  long  letter  to  Hill, 
quoted  above. 

That  Richardson  did  not  draw  Pamela  from 
any  person  of  his  acquaintance,  we  learn  from  a 

58 


RICHARDSON 

letter  to  Thomas  Edwards,  in  1753.  "I  am 
charmed,  my  dear  Mr.  Edwards,  with  your  sweet 
story  of  a  second  Pamela.  Had  I  drawn  mine 
from  the  very  life,  I  should  have  made  a  much 
more  perfect  piece  of  my  first  favourite  —  first,  I 
mean,  as  to  time."  In  view  of  this  statement,  it 
is  rather  singular  that  Richardson  accused  Field- 
ing of  having  little  or  no  invention,  because  his 
characters  were  all  drawn  from  life. 

Pamela  speedily  went  into  a  second  edition,  and 
by  1771  ten  editions  of  this  separate  work  had 
appeared.  It  was  translated  into  French  and 
Dutch,  and  it  was  dramatised  in  both  English  and 
Italian.  Imitations  naturally  followed.  A  book 
purporting  to  be  a  genuine  continuation,  called 
Pamela  in  High  Life,  surreptitiously  appeared. 
This  unfortunately  drove  Richardson  to  the  com- 
position and  publication  of  an  authentic  sequel,  giv- 
ing, in  two  additional  volumes,  the  social  triumphs 
of  Pamela,  as  the  amiable  consort  of  Mr.  B. 
Though  these  volumes  are  now  necessarily  included 
in  every  complete  edition  of  the  novel,  they  are, 
as  some  one  has  remarked,  well  worth  skipping. 
Overloaded  with  moral  platitudes,  the  only  episode 
that  approaches  human  interest  is  Mr.  B.'s  temp- 
tation to  renew  his  vicious  habits.  For  once,  and 
with  just  the  opposite  intention,  Richardson  made 
vice  more  attractive  than  virtue. 

59 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

But  a  greater  sequel,  and  one  that  pleased 
Richardson  even  less  than  the  spurious  book 
above  mentioned,  was  Fielding's  Joseph  Andrews^ 
which  appeared  in  1742.  For  stirring  up  this 
particular  enemy,  even  the  best  friends  of  Rich- 
ardson to-day  must  be  thankful.  With  the  keen 
eye  of  the  humorist,  Fielding  saw  clearly  the 
vulnerable  points  in  Richardson's  armour,  and 
had  Mr,  B.  really  been  alive,  even  his  complacency 
would  have  been  ruffled  by  Fielding's  Mr.  Booby. 

Even  in  1741  there  had  been  published  a  parody 
on  Richardson's  style  in  the  following  work,  which 
Richardson  thought  had  been  written  by  Field- 
ing. "An  Apology  for  the  Life  of  Mrs.  Shamela 
Andrews,  in  which  the  many  notorious  falsehoods 
and  misrepresentations  of  a  book  called  'Pamela' 
are  exposed  and  refuted,  and  all  the  matchless 
arts  of  that  young  politician  set  in  a  true  and  just 
light."  It  ridiculed  the  pretended  virtuous  motives 
of  Pamela,  her  epistolary  style,  and  Richardson's 
egotistical  preface. 

Pamela  has  many  striking  defects,  both  in  artistic 
and  moral  values.  The  frankly  told  scenes  of 
attempted  outrage  are  narrated  with  ill-concealed 
gusto.  It  is  an  interesting  comment  on  the  age, 
that  what  was  then  regarded  as  an  ideal  "  Sunday- 
school"  book  would  never  be  allowed  to-day  to 
enter  the  precincts  of  a  sacred  edifice.     The  spec- 

60 


RICHARDSON 

tacle  of  a  man  attempting  a  girl's  virtue  by  every 
subtlety  that  art  and  nature  can  suggest,  and  the 
keen-witted  girl,  harmless  as  a  dove,  but  wise  as 
a  serpent,  checkmating  him  by  marriage,  does  not, 
to  our  notions,  wholly  make  for  righteousness. 
At  heart,  however,  Richardson  was  an  uncom- 
promising realist,  and  his  genius  for  detail  did  not 
allow  him  to  omit  any  episode  that  he  considered 
vital  to  the  story. 

In  our  democratic  days,  many  readers  are  in- 
censed with  Pamela's  agreeing  even  to  marry 
Mr.  B.,  and  her  gushing  gratitude  for  his  con- 
descension grates  harshly  on  ears  that  love  to 
hear  the  scream  of  the  eagle.  We  should  remem- 
ber, that  though  Mr.  B.  before  his  marriage  was 
unquestionably  a  black-hearted  villain,  and  that 
Richardson  represents  him  as  such,  the  social 
gulf  that  separated  him  from  his  hand-maid  was 
enormous ;  to  an  eighteenth-century  mind,  prac- 
tically impassable.  He  was  the  head  of  the  house, 
and  she  one  of  the  many  humble  servants.  The 
question  looked  at  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
housemaid  is  not  —  Did  Pamela  act  rightly  in 
expressing  gratitude  to  a  would-be  ravisher  for 
marrying  her  ?  The  question  is  —  Would  an 
eighteenth-century  Pamela  really  have  felt  and 
expressed  gratitude  under  similar  circumstances? 
To  this  second  and  only  admissible  question,  we 

6i 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

must  unhesitatingly  give  an  affirmative  answer, 
which  destroys  at  once  all  adverse  criticism  on 
Pamela's  final  attitude.  If  Richardson  has  repre- 
sented her  emotions  true  to  life,  we  cannot  blame 
him  for  making  her  real. 

Nor  do  I  share  a  common  opinion  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  Pamela  to  feel  anything 
but  disgust  toward  her  pursuing  villain.  Mrs. 
Barbauld  says:  *'Is  it  quite  natural  that  a  girl, 
who  had  such  a  genuine  love  for  virtue,  should 
feel  her  heart  attracted  to  a  man  who  was  en- 
deavouring to  destroy  that  virtue?  Does  not 
pious  love  to  assimilate  with  pious,  and  pure  with 
pure?"  To  this  serious  question  we  may  reply 
that  if  love  were  a  matter  of  judgment  instead 
of  instinct,  thousands  of  marriages  would  never 
happen  at  all,  and  many  wives  would  hate  their 
husbands.  Pamela  unquestionably  ought  to  hate 
Mr.  B.  and  after  she  perceived  his  intentions  ought 
never  to  think  tenderly  of  him  again.  She  does 
try  to  hate  him.  Why  does  she  not  succeed? 
Because  she  loves  him.  There  lies  the  whole 
truth  of  the  matter,  and  if  we  ask  further.  Why 
should  So-and-So  love  So-and-So,  we  get  at  once 
into  insuperable  difficulties.  Miss  Thomson  says, 
"No  woman  will  forgive  her  for  .  .  .  the  passion 
supposed  to  be  aroused  in  her  by  her  unworthy 
lover."     Perhaps   not;     women   find   it   hard   to 

62 


RICHARDSON 

forgive  other  women  for  many  things.  But  the 
fact  remains,  that  thousands  of  dead  and  living 
women,  wholly  virtuous  in  character  and  conduct, 
have  loved  evil-minded  men,  and  the  growth  of 
Pamela's  passion  has  been  sketched  by  Richard- 
son with  consummate  art.  Depend  upon  it,  he 
knew  what  he  was  about;  and  he  has  shown  to 
those  who  see  with  their  eyes  and  not  with  their 
prejudices,  that  the  only  reason  why  Pamela  in 
her  heart  of  hearts  did  not  hate  Mr.  B.  was  be- 
cause in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  loved  him. 

My  objection  to  the  book  is  not  directed  against 
its  fidelity  to  life,  but  at  its  final  moral  applica- 
tion. The  secondary  title.  Virtue  Rewarded,  has 
a  false  ring.  Pamela  is  praised  for  her  skill  and 
perseverance  in  preserving  her  virtue ;  she  is  re- 
warded by  finally  disposing  of  her  person  in  mar- 
riage at  the  highest  possible  figure.  The  moral 
seems  to  be,  that  if  comely  girls  will  hold  their 
would-be  seducers  at  arm's  length  for  a  sufficiently 
long  time,  they  may  succeed  in  marrying  the  men, 
and  incidentally  securing  worldly  fortune  and 
social  position.  Such  a  moral  standard  is  not 
any  too  high ;  and  in  so  far,  the  novel  is  defective. 
No  such  accusation  can  be  brought  against  that 
wonderful  masterpiece,  Clarissa. 

Yet  Pamela,  with  all  its  defects,  is  a  great  book. 
The  heroine  is  absolutely  real,  both  in  the  tragic 

63 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

and  comic  scenes.  An  extraordinary  fascination 
accompanies  this  girl;  she  is  as  attractive  to-day 
as  she  was  one  hundred  and  sixty  years  ago,  sim- 
ply because  she  is  an  incarnation  of  the  eternal 
feminine.  Many  may  wonder  why  she  loved 
Mr.  B.  No  one  has  ever  wondered  why  Mr.  B. 
loved  her.  Her  girlish  beauty,  her  demure  man- 
ner, her  charming  prattling  —  even  her  vanity 
and  self-righteousness  combine  to  make  her  irre- 
sistible. Her  vivacity  is  the  lovely  vivacity  of 
youth  in  radiant  health,  joined  to  the  pleasing 
consciousness  of  possessing  both  internal  virtue 
and  external  charms. 

Mr.  B.  is  unfortunately  not  so  convincing.  He 
is  as  impeccable  in  appearance  and  about  as  in- 
teresting as  a  well-executed  fashion-plate.  Mrs. 
Jewkes  is  a  monster  rather  than  a  woman,  but,  it 
must  be  admitted,  an  impressive  monster.  Her 
horrid  exterior,  rum-soaked  soul,  and  filthy  speech 
are  as  loathsome  as  they  were  meant  to  be :  and 
the  contrast  between  the  graceful  Pamela  and 
this  unspeakable  dragon  is  as  striking  as  that 
between  the  white  Andromeda  and  the  hideous 
snake  of  the  sea.  Mr.  Williams  is  by  no  means 
so  great  a  character  as  Parson  Adams,  but  he  is 
an  addition  to  our  acquaintance,  and  supplies 
exactly  the  touch  of  jealousy  needed  to  bring 
Pamela's  affairs  to  a  crisis.     Goodman  Andrews, 

64 


RICHARDSON 

the  girl's  father,  is  admirable  if  only  we  remember 
that  he  lived  in  the  eighteenth  and  not  in  the 
twentieth  century.  Once  more  we  must  not  ask, 
Do  we  approve  ?  but.  Is  he  true  to  life  ?  As  for 
Lady  Davers,  her  manners  are  surely  not  Christ- 
like, and  they  lack,  it  must  be  confessed,  some- 
thing of  the  repose  that  we  love  to  associate  with 
good-breeding;  and  Richardson  has  been  con- 
demned for  making  her  so  cruel  and  so  coarse. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  high  society  in 
that  age  knew  her  only  too  well,  and  that  her 
coarseness  of  speech  was  not  natural  vulgarity, 
but  sprang  from  the  assurance  of  her  social  posi- 
tion. One  is  often  taken  for  the  other,  when  we 
read  the  annals  of  fashionable  society  in  the  days 
before  the  French  Revolution. 

In  making  a  final  estimate  of  this  extraordinary 
book,  let  us  remember  that  it  is  really  the  first 
analytical  novel  in  the  language ;  that  its  style, 
plan,  and  aim  were  wholly  original ;  that  it  is  a 
study  of  a  section  of  real  life  that  had  been  neg- 
lected; that  it  produced  a  powerful  effect  on 
English  literature,  founding  a  whole  school  of 
fiction,  and  spurred  a  rival  to  activity;  that  with 
painstaking  and  delicate  art,  its  author  presented 
one  great  character  to  the  world,  whom  no  reader 
of  the  book  can  by  any  chance  forget;  that  the 
novel  has  been  read  with  enthusiasm  by  judicious 
F  6s 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

readers  in  three  centuries,  and  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  imagine  any  age  when  it  will  not  be  read  and 
admired.  Such  a  book  is  a  great  book,  and  was 
written  by  a  great  man. 

The  first  two  volumes  of  Richardson's  master- 
piece appeared  in  the  month  of  November  1747, 
under  the  unassuming  title,  Clarissa;  or,  the  history 
of  a  young  lady.  Published  by  the  editor  of  Pamela. 
All  three  of  Richardson's  literary  children,  Pamela, 
who  went  out  to  service,  Clarissa,  whose  cruel  des- 
tiny flooded  Europe  with  tears,  and  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of 
form,  were  born  in  November,  and  gave  the  people 
of  London  something  to  think  about  besides  the 
fog.  The  author's  method  of  publishing  his  works 
had  much  the  same  effect  on  the  public  as  the  mod- 
ern style  of  issuing  an  exciting  romance  in  the  pages 
of  a  monthly  magazine,  each  number  of  which  is 
eagerly  awaited  by  thousands  of  interested  readers ; 
it  resembled  also  the  custom  of  Dickens  and  Thack- 
eray, of  sending  out  their  long  novels  in  separate 
parts,  printed  once  a  month,  the  publication  of  the 
entire  story  often  covering  two  years.  We  remem- 
ber, in  the  charming  play,  Rosemary,  the  intense 
eagerness  with  which  the  hero  has  seized  the  latest 
number  of  Dickens,  how  he  cannot  wait  for  his 
comfortable  and  bright  library,  but  must  stumble 

66 


RICHARDSON 

along  with  a  lantern  reading  the  fresh  new  pages  on 
the  lonely  road  in  the  night,  and  stirring  up  strange 
echoes  with  his  shouts  of  laughter.  Although  the 
emotions  they  inspired  were  not  comic,  but  deeply 
tragic,  it  was  with  the  same  fever  of  expectancy 
that  the  third  and  fourth  volumes  of  Clarissa  were 
opened,  as  they  issued  from  the  press  in  April  1748. 
The  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  volumes,  concluding 
the  work,  did  not  appear  until  December,  and  thus 
for  over  a  year  Richardson  kept  his  readers  on  the 
rack,  only  to  crush  their  hopes  at  the  end.  The 
excitement  aroused  among  all  classes  by  their 
anxiety  as  to  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  heroine  may 
be  partially  understood  by  reading  the  letters  ad- 
dressed to  the  author.  They  flowed  in  thick  and 
fast,  coming  from  every  quarter,  but  commonly 
bearing  the  same  burden,  beseeching  Richardson, 
some  with  tears,  and  some  with  curses,  to  spare 
Clarissa,  and  close  the  book  with  the  jingle  of  wed- 
ding bells.  "O  what  shall  I  feel,"  wrote  a  fair  cor- 
respondent, "when  I  read  —  'This  day  is  published 
a  continuation  of  The  History  of  Miss  Clarissa 
Harlowe  !  '  I  am  ashamed  to  say  how  much  I  shall 
be  affected."  A  gentleman  wrote  that  he  had 
three  daughters ;  that  all  three  were  reading  the 
novel ;  that  if  Clarissa  died,  all  three  daughters 
would  die  too.  But  the  grim  httle  man,  inexorable 
as  fate,  never  swerved  from  the  course  his  artistic 

67 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

instincts  had  shown ;  deaf  to  hysterical  entreaties, 
blind  to  the  tears  of  lovely  women,  and  weeping 
himself  over  his  heroine's  fate,  he  slew  her.  Cla- 
rissa Harlowe  was  a  glorious  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of 
art. 

Lady  Bradshaigh's  inability  to  conceal  her  grief 
and  terror,  as  the  tragedy  deepened,  was  the  cause 
of  the  beginning  of  one  of  the  closest  friendships 
in  Richardson's  life.  In  October  1748,  she  wrote, 
"  I  am  pressed,  Sir,  by  a  multitude  of  your  admirers, 
to  plead  in  behalf  of  your  amiable  Clarissa  ;  having 
too  much  reason,  from  hints  given  in  your  four  vol- 
umes, from  a  certain  advertisement,  and  from  your 
forbearing  to  write,  after  promising  all  endeavours 
should  be  used  toward  satisfying  the  discontented ; 
from  all  these,  I  say,  I  have  but  too  much  reason 
to  apprehend  a  fatal  catastrophe.  I  have  heard 
that  some  of  your  advisers,  who  delight  in  horror, 
(detestable  wretches !)  insisted  upon  rapes,  ruin, 
and  destruction ;  others,  who  feel  for  the  virtuous 
in  distress,  (blessings  forever  attend  them  !)  pleaded 
for  the  contrary.  Could  you  be  deaf  to  these,  and 
comply  with  those  ?  Is  it  possible,  that  he  who  has 
the  art  to  please  in  softness,  in  the  most  natural, 
easy,  humorous,  and  sensible  manner,  can  resolve 
to  give  joy  only  to  the  ill-natured  reader,  and  heave 
the  compassionate  breast  with  tears  for  irremediable 
woes  ?  .  .  .     Therefore,  Sir,  after  you  have  brought 

68 


RICHARDSON 

the  divine  Clarissa  to  the  very  brink  of  destruction, 
let  me  intreat  (may  I  say,  insist  upon)  a  turn,  that 
will  make  your  almost  despairing  readers  half  mad 
with  joy.  ...  If  you  think,  by  the  hints  given, 
that  the  event  is  too  generally  guessed  at,  and  for 
that  reason  think  it  too  late  to  alter  your  scheme, 
I  boldly  assert  —  not  at  all ;  write  a  little  excuse 
to  the  reader,  '  that  you  had  a  design  of  concluding 
so  and  so,  but  was  given  to  understand  it  would 
disappoint  so  many  of  your  readers,  that,  upon  ma- 
ture deliberation  and  advice  of  friends,  you  had 
resolved  on  the  contrary.'  ...  If  you  disappoint 
me,  attend  to  my  curse  :  — May  the  hatred  of  all 
the  young,  beautiful,  and  virtuous,  for  ever  be  your 
portion  !  and  may  your  eyes  never  behold  anything 
but  age  and  deformity !  may  you  meet  with  ap- 
plause only  from  envious  old  maids,  surly  bachelors, 
and  tyrannical  parents  !  may  you  be  doomed  to  the 
company  of  such !  and,  after  death,  may  their 
ugly  souls  haunt  you  !  " 

She  continued  to  write  in  this  strain,  using  all 
her  resources  of  argument,  flattery,  warning,  and 
downright  entreaty ;  if  he  would  only  comply,  she 
promised  to  read  the  entire  work  at  least  once  in 
two  years  so  long  as  she  lived ;  if  he  persisted,  she 
would  never  open  the  concluding  volumes.  "I  am 
as  mad  as  the  poor  injured  Clarissa,"  she  writes, 
after  Richardson   had  sent  her  the  fifth  volume ; 

69 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

"and  am  afraid  I  cannot  help  hating  you,  if  you 
alter  not  your  scheme."  She  tries  to  read  the  book, 
and  fails.  "I  have  been  some  time  thinking  your 
history  over,  and  I  find  I  cannot  read  it.  .  .  .  You 
would  not  wonder  at  my  infiexibleness,  if  you  knew 
the  joy  I  had  promised  myself  from  a  happy  catas- 
trophe. I  cannot  see  my  amiable  Clarissa  die ;  it 
will  hurt  my  heart,  and  durably.  I  know  your  man- 
ner, and  I  know  my  weakness  —  I  cannot  bear  it." 
Richardson  replied  to  her  supplications  at  great 
length,  showing,  both  on  artistic  and  moral  grounds, 
the  necessity  for  a  tragic  close.  In  the  following 
words,  we  see  that  his  ideal  in  this  painful  story 
resembled  that  of  the  authors  of  Antigone  and  King 
Lear.  "Nor  can  I  go  thro'  some  of  the  scenes  my- 
self without  being  sensibly  touched.  (Did  I  not 
say  that  I  was  another  Pygmalion  ?)  But  yet  I 
had  to  shew,  for  example  sake,  a  young  lady  strug- 
gling nobly  with  the  greatest  difl&culties,  and  tri- 
umphing from  the  best  motives,  in  the  course  of  dis- 
tresses, the  tenth  part  of  which  would  have  sunk 
even  manly  hearts ;  yet  tenderly  educated,  born  to 
affluence,  naturally  meek,  altho',  where  an  exertion 
of  spirit  was  necessary,  manifesting  herself  to  be  a 
true  heroine."  Seldom  has  there  been  heard  a 
better  statement  of  a  great  artist's  conscientious 
purpose. 
It  was  not  only  the  gentle  hearts  of  women  that 
70 


RICHARDSON 

were  shaken  by  the  approach  of  Clarissa's  awful 
doom;  while  the  women  found  relief  in  tears,  the 
men  swore  wildly.  Colley  Gibber's  astonishing 
complacency  for  once  deserted  him,  his  impression- 
able nature  seized  and  held  by  Richardson's  power- 
ful grasp.  Lastitia  Pilkington  wrote  :  "  I  passed  two 
hours  this  morning  with  Mr.  Gibber,  whom  I  found 
in  such  real  anxiety  for  Glarissa,  as  none  but  so 
perfect  a  master  of  nature  could  have  excited.  I 
had  related  to  him,  not  only  the  catastrophe  of  the 
story,  but  also  your  truly  religious  and  moral  reason 
for  it ;  and,  when  he  heard  what  a  dreadful  lot  hers 
was  to  be,  he  lost  all  patience,  threw  down  the  book, 
and  vowed  he  would  not  read  another  line.  To 
express  or  paint  his  passion  would  require  such 
masterly  hands  as  yours,  or  his  own  :  he  shuddered ; 
nay,  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes:  —  'What!  (said 
he)  shall  I,  who  have  loved  and  revered  the  virtuous, 
the  beautiful  Glarissa,  from  the  same  motives  I 
loved  Mr.  Richardson,  bear  to  stand  a  patient  spec- 
tator of  her  ruin,  her  final  destruction  ?  No  !  — My 
heart  suffers  as  strongly  for  her  as  if  word  was 
brought  me  that  his  house  was  on  fire,  and  himself, 
and  his  wife,  and  Httle  ones,  Hkely  to  perish  in  the 
flame.'  ...  In  this  manner  did  the  dear  gentle- 
man, I  think  I  may  almost  say,  rave ;  for  I  never 
saw  passion  higher  wrought  than  his.  When  I  told 
him  she  must  die,  he  said,  '  G — d  d — n  him,  if  she 

71 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

should ;  and  that  he  should  no  longer  believe  Provi- 
dence or  eternal  Wisdom,  or  Goodness  governed  the 
world,  if  merit,  innocence,  and  beauty  were  to  be 
so  destroyed :  nay,  (added  he)  my  mind  is  so  hurt 
with  the  thought  of  her  being  violated,  that  were 
I  to  see  her  in  Heaven,  sitting  on  the  knees  of  the 
blessed  Virgin,  and  crowned  with  glory,  her  suffer- 
ings would  still  make  me  feel  horror,  horror  dis- 
tilled.'" Gibber  adopted  a  comically  sincere 
manner  of  showing  his  interest.  "I  have  gone  every 
evening  to  Ranelagh,  in  order  to  find  a  face  or  mien 
resembling  Miss  Harlowe,  but  to  no  purpose :  the 
charmer  is  inimitable ;  I  cannot  find  her  equal." 

Nor,  essentially  British  as  this  novel  is  in  sub- 
stance and  in  treatment,  were  its  passionate  ad- 
mirers confined  to  the  circle  of  English  readers. 
Diderot's  almost  frantic  excitement  while  reading 
it  is  well  known ;  the  Rev.  J.  Stinstra,  who  trans- 
lated the  work  into  Dutch,  wrote,  "Multitudes  of 
people  earnestly  beg  the  printing  of  the  remaining 
parts  may  be  expedited.  Among  them,  a  certain 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  who,  when  he  had  finished 
the  first  volume,  complained  that  it  was  flat  and 
tiresome ;  after  he  had,  at  my  intreaty,  read  the 
volumes  through,  confessed,  'That  he  doubted  not, 
but  that  if  very  many  parts  of  these  letters  were 
to  be  found  in  the  Bible,  they  would  be  pointed  out 
as  manifest  proofs  of  divine  inspiration.'"    ,    .    . 

72 


RICHARDSON 

Such  was  the  manner  in  which  Clarissa  afifected 
the  men  and  women  of  the  eighteenth  century ; 
what  is  its  effect  to-day?  Do  we  read  the  rhap- 
sodies and  entreaties  of  Richardson's  correspondents 
with  silent  amazement,  with  smiHng  contemptuous 
superiority,  or  possibly  with  some  degree  of  intel- 
lectual sympathy?  When,  after  receiving  the 
Castle  of  Otranto,  Gray  wrote  to  Walpole,  "It  en- 
gages our  attention  here,  makes  some  of  us  cry  a 
little,  and  all  in  general  afraid  to  go  to  bed  o'nights," 
we  read  his  words  "smiling  as  in  scorn,"  for  we  find 
it  impossible  to  take  the  Castle  of  Otranto  seriously. 
The  books  that  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  chil- 
dren of  one  generation  make  the  eyes  of  their  chil- 
dren's children  glisten  with  irrepressible  laughter, 
or  perchance  make  them  heavy  with  sleep.  Does 
Richardson,  too,  belong  to  the  army  of  the  obsolete  ? 
Must  we  rummage 

"Those  old  odd  corners  of  an  empty  heart 
For  remnants  of  dim  love  the  long  disused, 
And  dusty  crumblings  of  romance" 

to  learn  the  secret  of  his  power  over  our  ancestors  ? 
Or,  is  he,  indeed,  alive  to-day  as  well  as  yesterday, 
with  something  of  his  former  strength  and  charm  ? 
To  this  last  question  we  must  return  an  emphatic 
affirmative.  Trevelyan,  in  his  Life  of  Macaulay, 
narrates  the  following  incident,  which  shows  that 
the  freshness  and  force  of  Clarissa's  story  were 

73 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

proportionally  as  effective  in  the  nineteenth  as  in 
the  eighteenth  century : 

"The  ordinary  amusements  with  which,  in  the 
more  settled  parts  of  India,  our  countrymen  beguile 
the  rainy  season,  were  wanting  in  a  settlement  that 
had  only  lately  been  reclaimed  from  the  desert; 
.  ,  .  There  were  no  books  in  the  place  except  those 
that  Macaulay  had  brought  with  him ;  among 
which,  most  luckily,  was  'Clarissa  Harlowe.' 
Aided  by  the  rain  outside,  he  soon  talked  his  fa- 
vourite romance  into  general  favour.  The  reader 
will  consent  to  put  up  with  one  or  two  slight  inac- 
curacies in  order  to  have  the  story  told  by  Thack- 
eray. 

''I  spoke  to  him  about  'Clarissa.'  'Not  read 
"  Clarissa! " '  he  cried  out.  'If  you  have  once  read 
"  Clarissa,"  and  are  infected  by  it,  you  can't  leave 
it.  When  I  was  in  India  I  passed  one  hot  season  in 
the  Hills  ;  and  there  were  the  governor-general,  and 
the  secretary  of  government,  and  the  commander- 
in-chief,  and  their  wives.  I  had  "Clarissa  "with  me ; 
and  as  soon  as  they  began  to  read,  the  whole  station 
was  in  a  passion  of  excitement  about  Miss  Harlowe, 
and  her  misfortunes,  and  her  scoundrelly  Lovelace. 
The  governor's  wife  seized  the  book ;  the  secretary 
waited  for  it ;  the  chief-justice  could  not  read  it  for 
tears.'  He  acted  the  whole  scene  :  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  Athenaeum  library.     I  dare  say  he  could 

74 


RICHARDSON 

have  spoken  pages  of  the  book :  of  that  book,  and 
of  what  countless  piles  of  others  !" 

"An  old  Scotch  doctor,  a  Jacobin  and  a  free 
thinker,  who  could  hardly  be  got  to  attend  church 
by  the  positive  orders  of  the  governor-general,  cried 
over  the  last  volume  until  he  was  too  ill  to  appear 
at  dinner.  The  chief  secretary  —  afterward  as  Sir 
William  Macnaughten,  the  hero  and  victim  of  the 
darkest  episode  in  our  Indian  history  —  declared 
that  reading  this  copy  of  '  Clarissa '  under  the  inspi- 
ration of  its  owner's  enthusiasm  was  nothing  less 
than  an  epoch  in  his  life.  After  the  lapse  of  years, 
when  Ootacamund  had  long  enjoyed  the  advantage 
of  a  book-club  and  a  circulating  library,  the  tradi- 
tion of  Macaulay  and  his  novel  still  lingered  on  with 
a  tenacity  most  unusual  in  the  ever-shifting  society 
of  an  Indian  station." 

To  those  who  have  ears  to  hear,  the  narrative  of 
Clarissa  is  as  thrilling  in  its  intensity  and  as  power- 
ful in  its  accumulation  of  tragic  suffering,  as  it  was 
when  fijst  uttered.  An  American  critic  declared 
the  other  day  that  he  attempted  to  reread  Clarissa, 
and  simply  could  not ;  for  he  continually  burst  out 
cr}dng.  Mr.  Birrell  quotes  Napoleon  as  "a  true 
Richardsonian,"  and  says,  "Clarissa  Harlowe  has  a 
place  not  merely  amongst  English  novels,  but 
amongst  English  women."  And  as  a  final  shot  to 
the  PhiHstines,  he  remarks,  "There  is  nothing  to  be 

75 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

proud  of,  I  can  assure  you,  in  not  being  able  to 
read  Clarissa  Harlowe,  or  to  appreciate  the  genius 
which  created  Lovelace."  "Clarissa,"  said  one  of 
the  best  modern  French  critics,  M.  Joseph  Texte, 
"is  a  truly  living  creation.  .  .  .  Hers  is  the  first 
complete  biography  of  a  woman  in  modern  fiction." 
It  is  needless  to  multiply  instances  which  prove  that 
whatever  rank  in  fiction  Clarissa  may  finally  reach, 
it  is  assuredly  not  a  forgotten  or  a  neglected  book. 
It  produces  upon  the  readers  of  to-day,  all  things 
considered,  about  the  same  effect  that  it  produced 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  Some  were  thrilled,  and 
others  were  bored.  Horace  Walpole  remarked, 
"Richardson  wrote  those  deplorably  tedious  lam- 
entations, 'Clarissa,'  and  'Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son,'  which  are  pictures  of  high  life  as  conceived 
by  a  book-seller,  and  romances  as  they  would  be 
spiritualised  by  a  Methodist  teacher."  On  the 
other  hand,  the  brilliant  and  beautiful  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montagu,  every  whit  as  sophisticated, 
blasee,  and  worldly  minded  as  Walpole,  said  :  "This 
Richardson  is  a  strange  fellow.  I  heartily  despise 
him,  and  eagerly  read  him,  nay,  sob  over  his  works 
in  a  most  scandalous  manner."  Enough  has  been 
said  to  show  that  Clarissa  does  not  belong  among 
literary  curiosities ;  and  no  one  who  weeps  to-day 
over  her  fate  need  blush  either  for  the  impulses  of 
his  heart,  or  for  the  state  of  his  literary  taste. 

76 


RICHARDSON 

The  manner  in  which  we  approach  the  story,  even 
if  reading  it  for  the  first  time,  is  of  course  quite 
different  from  that  of  Colley  Gibber,  Lady  Brads- 
haigh,  and  their  contemporaries.  For  they  read 
its  pages  with  the  feverish  excitement  of  one  who 
bends  over  the  bedside  of  a  dear  friend,  where  life 
and  death  are  trembling  in  the  balance.  To-day 
it  is  safe  to  assume  that  no  intelHgent  person  reads 
Clarissa  without  already  knowing  the  plot.  What 
impresses  us  chiefly  is  not  the  skilful  manner  in 
which  Richardson  has  managed  the  details  of  his 
story,  keeping  the  reader's  mind  constantly  fluctu- 
ating between  hope  and  despair ;  much  might  be 
said  in  praise  of  this  skill,  for,  if  only  the  first  four 
volumes  were  extant,  no  one  could  say  with  absolute 
certitude  what  the  outcome  might  be.  What  en- 
thralls us  is  the  horrible,  yet  strangely  fascinating 
approach  of  Clarissa's  fate  —  seen  dimly  from  afar 
and  looming  nearer  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees, 
our  terror  and  pity  heightened  by  the  extraordinary 
slowness  of  its  march.  An  absolute  kidnapping 
and  outrage  at  the  very  start,  such  as  came  so  near 
a  fatality  for  Harriet  Byron,  would  not  begin  to  be 
so  impressive  as  to  watch  the  gradual  unfolding 
of  this  sincere  tragedy.  We  see  Clarissa,  panoplied 
with  virtue,  graced  with  culture  and  high  breeding, 
armed  with  keen  intelligence,  making  nevertheless 
an  unequal  struggle,  only  because  she  does  not  at 

77 


ESSAYS  ON   BOOKS 

the  beginning  realise  that  she  is  fighting  for  the 
highest  stakes  in  Hfe.  The  impressiveness  of  this 
drama  to  us  is  the  impressiveness  of  suspense  — 
of  a  delayed  catastrophe  sure  to  arrive,  like  that  of 
Hamlet^  rather  than  the  shock  of  a  surprise  plot, 
where  we  greet  the  outcome  with  overwhelming 
amazement,  as  at  the  terrific  climax  of  The  Return 
of  the  Druses. 

As  for  the  characters  in  this  novel,  Clarissa  has 
already  been  assigned  her  place  in  the  world's  gal- 
lery of  immortal  portraits.  She  is  as  essentially  fem- 
inine as  Pamela,  there  being  precisely  the  difference 
between  them  that  would  have  existed  in  real  life — 
the  difference  of  birth,  breeding,  and  social  position. 
She  inherits  from  her  family  the  terrible  Harlowe 
pride,  and  much  of  the  poignancy  of  the  tragedy 
lies  in  the  humiliation  of  so  inflexible  a  soul.     She  is 

"A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 
Her  household  motions  Hght  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin-hberty ; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 
***** 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light." 
78 


RICHARDSON 

Clarissa  has  been  criticised  for  lacking  passion; 
for  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  the  goddess  Pro- 
priety. Profligates  and  prodigals  do  not  enjoy  a 
monopoly  of  passion ;  for  it  burns  fiercely  in  men  and 
women  of  absolutely  regular  lives.  Who  would  have 
dreamed  of  the  individual  passion  of  woman  for  man 
that  glowed  in  the  heart  of  the  invalid  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  had  Robert  Browning  never  entered  her 
sick-room  ?  Suppose  Lovelace  had  crowned  his  ac- 
complishments with  virtue,  is  it  possible  to  place 
any  limit  to  the  devotion  he  would  have  received 
from  Clarissa  ?  It  was  by  no  accident  that  Richard- 
son made  his  steadfast  women,  Pamela,  Clarissa, 
Harriet,  and  Clementina,  thrill  with  emotions  un- 
known to  the  wayward  and  capricious  Miss  Howe 
and  Charlotte  Grandison.  Clarissa's  capacity  for 
passion  is  not  less  because  she  loves  duty  and  obedi- 
ence. It  is  the  frightful  struggle  between  the  dig- 
nity of  her  personality  and  her  desire  to  obey  her 
father  that  appeals  to  us  most  keenly ;  and  the  cruel 
choice  of  lovers,  one,  endowed  with  every  grace  and 
charm,  but  lacking  virtue,  and  the  other,  oJGfensive 
as  only  a  respectable  boor  can  be,  forms  a  dilemma 
with  the  prospect  of  happiness  excluded.  Were  she 
less  pure  in  heart,  she  might  choose  Lovelace ;  were 
she  less  womanly,  she  might  accept  Solmes.  We 
admire  her  because  she  will  not  have  Lovelace ;  we 
love  her  because  she  despises  Solmes. 

79 


ESSAYS   ON  BOOKS 

From  first  to  last  she  is  always  the  same,  in  the 
most  trying  circumstances  never  acting  in  a  way 
inconsistent  with  her  personality.  Apparently 
free,  not  seeing  the  meshes  of  her  fate,  then  strug- 
gling wildly  in  its  slimy  folds,  then  with  broken 
heart,  her  banner  of  virgin  pride  trailed  in  the 
dust,  finally  awaiting  calmly  the  release  of  death, 
she  is  always  the  same  Clarissa  Harlowe,  with  the 
same  integrity  of  soul.  From  the  wreck  of  her 
earthly  hopes  and  happiness  she  shines  eternally 
serene,  as  through  the  cloud-rack  gleams  the  even- 
ing star. 

Lovelace,  while  something  of  a  stage  villain,  is 
the  most  convincing  male  character  that  Richard- 
son ever  drew.  Compare  him  with  his  predecessor 
Mr.  B.,  whose  name  is  as  blank  as  his  personal- 
ity !  Miss  Thomson,  by  printing  some  extracts 
from  Richardson's  unpublished  correspondence, 
shows  that  he  drew  Lovelace  from  life.  On  26 
January  1747,  writing  to  Aaron  Hill,  he  says,  "I  am 
a  good  deal  warped  by  the  character  of  a  gentleman 
I  had  in  my  eye,  when  I  drew  both  him  (Lovelace) 
and  Mr.  B.  in  Pamela.  The  best  of  that  gentleman 
in  the  latter ;  the  worst  of  him  for  Lovelace,  made 
still  worse  by  mingling  the  worst  of  two  other  char- 
acters, that  were  as  well  known  to  me,  of  that  gentle- 
man's acquaintance,  and  this  made  me  say  in  my 
last  that  I  aimed  at  an  uncommon,  though  I  suppose 

80 


RICHARDSON 

a  not  quite  unnatural  character."  The  good  quali- 
ties must  therefore  have  been  supplied  by  Richard- 
son's imagination,  for  nothing  throughout  the  story 
is  more  constantly  insisted  upon  than  the  excellent 
side  of  the  villain.  In  another  unpubUshed  letter  of 
3  October  1 748,  Richardson  wrote :  "Have  you  read 
Lovelace's  bad  and  not  his  good  ?  Or  does  the  ab- 
horrence which  you  have  for  that  bad,  make  you 
forget  that  he  has  any  good  ?  Is  he  not  generous  ? 
Is  he  not  with  respect  to  meum  and  tuum  matters 
just?  Is  he  not  ingenious?  Does  he  not  on  all 
occasions  exalt  the  lady  at  his  expense?  Has  he 
not  therefore  many  sparks  of  goodness  in  his  heart, 
though,  with  regard  to  the  sex,  he  sticks  at  nothing  ?  " 
The  good  qualities  in  Lovelace  were  certainly  not 
overlooked  by  Richardson's  feminine  readers.  One 
lady  remarked,  Clarissa  "should  have  laid  aside 
all  delicacy ;  and  if  Lovelace  had  not  asked  her  in 
the  manner  she  wished,  she  ought  to  have  asked  him. 
In  short,  Lovelace  is  a  charming  young  fellow,  and 
I  own  I  like  him  excessively."  A  correspondent 
writes,  "You  know  I  love  to  tell  you  everything  I 
hear  concerning  your  Clarissa,  or  otherwise  I  should 
not  furnish  you  with  more  instances  of  what  you 
have  reason  to  say  you  too  often  meet  with ;  namely, 
the  fondness  most  women  have  for  the  character  of 
Lovelace."  In  the  course  of  her  prayers  to  Rich- 
ardson, to  make  the  story  end  happily.  Lady  Brads- 

G  81 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

haigh  writes,  "I  am  very  sensible  of  all  the  bad 
qualities  you  point  out  in  the  character  of  Lovelace  : 
his  villainies  are  hateful  to  my  thoughts ;  and  I 
acknowledge  your  hero  deserving  of  hate,  contempt, 
and  everything  that  you  think  he  deserves,  except 
the  entire  loss  of  Clarissa,  and  eternal  misery ;  one, 
I  think,  must  be  the  consequence  of  the  other. 
Sure  you  will  think  it  worth  your  while  to  save  his 
soul.  Sir.  I  have  many  things  yet  to  say  in  behalf 
of  this  savage.  'Lord!'  you  cry,  'how  she  loves 
to  excuse  this  wicked  man  ! '  but  pray  be  quiet. 
You  say  'you  are  surprised  and  concerned  that  this 
character  should  meet  with  so  much  favour  from 
the  good  and  virtuous' ;  but  you  may  assure  your- 
self the  good  and  virtuous  are  utter  enemies  to  all 
his  wickedness,  and  are  only  pleased  with  the  dis- 
tant view  and  hopes  of  his  becoming  the  good,  the 
virtuous,  and  the  tender  husband  of  Clarissa.  .  .  . 
I  agree  with  you  in  thinking  it  a  pernicious  notion, 
that  reformed  rakes  make  the  best  husbands.  .  .  . 
A  rake,  reformed  by  time,  age,  or  infirmities,  gener- 
ally wants  only  the  power  of  being  what  he  was ; 
but  a  sensible  man,  who  reforms  in  the  prime  of  his 
days,  and  apparently  from  laudable  motives,  may, 
I  think,  be  esteemed  worthy,  and  one  whom  even 
Clarissa  need  not  be  ashamed  to  accept  of,  though 
not  at  his  own  appointed  time,  and  by  way  of  favour 
to  her." 

82 


RICHARDSON 

Clarissa's  dilemma  between  Lovelace  and  Solmes 
was  sufficiently  cruel.  But  if  her  choice  had  been 
determined  by  the  majority  of  women  who  read  the 
novel  at  that  time,  I  fear  that  the  former  would  have 
polled  an  enormous  vote,  for  in  affairs  of  the  heart, 
it  is  natural  to  be  guided  by  inclination  rather  than 
by  principle.  On  this  basis,  it  was  Solmes,  and  not 
Lovelace,  who  was  guilty  of  the  unpardonable  sin 
—  the  sin  of  being  unattractive.  Mrs.  Barbauld, 
however,  wisely  sums  up  the  question  of  a  possible 
marriage  with  Lovelace  in  these  final  words,  which 
represent  precisely  the  author's  unmistakable  atti- 
tude. "That  woman  must  have  little  delicacy,  who 
does  not  feel  that  his  crime  has  raised  an  eternal 
wall  of  separation  between  him  and  the  victim  of 
his  treachery,  whatever  affection  she  might  have 
previously  entertained  for  him." 

It  is  indeed  surprising  that  a  character  like  Love- 
lace, who,  compared  with  men  of  real  life,  or  even 
with  Don  Juans  of  other  great  realistic  novels,  is  at 
once  seen  to  be  impossible,  should  take  so  strong  a 
hold  upon  our  imagination.  The  whole  is  greater 
than  the  sum  of  its  parts.  Analyse  him  —  he  sim- 
ply will  not  do ;  no  such  person  ever  lived.  Read- 
ing his  letters,  we  see  his  gay  personality  clearly, 
know  him  well,  and  never  forget  him.  May  not  the 
real  reason  for  this  lie  in  the  fact  that  while  Clarissa 
is  the  heroine  of  a  realistic  novel  of  actual  life,  Love- 

83 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

lace  is  simply  the  hero  of  romance  ?  He  is  essen- 
tially a  romantic  character.  Now  in  the  great  ro- 
mances, whether  they  be  by  Malory  or  Dumas,  we 
do  not  ask  that  the  persons  in  the  story  shall  be  like 
the  men  we  meet  on  the  street ;  we  ask  only  that 
they  shall  make  a  permanent  impression  on  our 
imagination.  And  Lovelace,  though  figuring  in  a 
great  realistic  novel,  carries  ever  with  him  the  at- 
mosphere of  romance.  Thus,  impossible  in  real 
life,  he  nevertheless  lives ;  and  even  French  critics, 
to  whom  one  instinctively  turns  to  learn  whether 
or  not  the  portrait  of  a  rake  is  correct,  agree  that 
Lovelace  is  an  artistic  triumph.  M.  Texte  remarks, 
"He  is  one  of  the  most  living  of  all  the  characters 
in  Richardson's  gallery." 

The  minor  characters  are  many  of  them  impos- 
sible to  forget.  Miss  Howe,  with  her  charming  vi- 
vacity and  sparkling  personahty,  throws  sunshine 
over  the  earlier  phases  of  the  tragedy ;  and  sun- 
shine is  needed  to  dispel  the  shadows  of  the  grim 
family  of  Harlowes.  Father,  mother,  sister, 
brother,  each  plainly  individualised,  yet  all  unmis- 
takably akin  —  there  is  surely  the  work  of  genius. 
Belford  stands  out  bold  and  rugged  in  outline, 
faithful  to  the  life.  Curiously  enough,  the  Rev. 
J.  Stinstra  thought  Richardson  was  drawing  his 
own  portrait  in  Belford.  He  wrote,  "Pardon  me. 
Sir,  but  I  was  before  of  opinion,  that  you  in  your 

S4 


RICHARDSON 

Belford  had  drawn  your  own  picture ;  that  you  had 
seen  the  world,  and  loved  it ;  but  afterwards  es- 
caped out  of  its  incitements.  In  this  case,  I  should 
not  have  been  ashamed  of  corresponding  with  you ; 
for,  am  I  not  a  follower  of  that  Saviour,  which  de- 
clared that  there  was  joy  in  heaven  on  a  repenting 
sinner?"  Nor,  among  the  lesser  characters,  can 
we  forget  the  wretched  creatures  of  the  brothel, 
who  set  off  by  their  abominable  shamelessness  the 
fair  purity  of  the  heroine. 

However  salutary  may  have  been  the  moral  effect 
of  Pamela  on  the  age  in  which  and  for  which  it  was 
written,  we  feel  that  in  this  particular  respect  it 
has  now  outlived  its  usefulness.  In  short,  a  keener 
moral  sense  and  a  juster  appreciation  of  moral 
values  make  us  repudiate  it.  There  are  many 
critics  to-day  who  insist  that  Pamela  is  a  more  im- 
moral book  than  Tom  Jones.  I  would  not  myself 
go  so  far  as  that,  though  I  realise  the  danger  at  this 
moment  of  saying  anything  of  any  sort  against  the 
works  of  Fielding.  But  about  Clarissa  there  cannot 
be  two  opinions.  The  call  to  virtue  rings  clear  and 
true.  As  Diderot  cried  in  his  excitement:  "Who 
would  be  Lovelace,  with  all  his  advantages  ?  Who 
would  not  be  Clarissa,  in  spite  of  her  misfortunes  ?  " 
The  ethics  of  this  remarkable  book  are  sound,  be- 
cause the  reward  of  virtue  is  seen  to  lie  not  in  the 
abundance  of  things  which  one  may  possess,  but  in 

85 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

character.  We  are  purified  by  this  spectacle  of 
pain,  and  reaHse  that  while  the  things  that  are  seen 
are  temporal,  the  things  that  are  not  seen  are  eter- 
nal. It  is  a  joint  masterpiece  of  Morality  and 
Art. 

Richardson's  avowed  aim  in  composing  the  story 
was  a  moral  one.  Discussing  the  Abbe  Prevost's 
translation  of  Clarissa,  he  said,  "He  treats  the  story 
as  a  true  one  ;  and  says,  in  one  place,  that  the  Eng- 
lish editor  has  often  sacrificed  his  story  to  moral 
instructions,  warnings,  &c.,  —  the  very  motive  with 
me,  of  the  story's  being  written  at  all."  In  spite 
of  himself,  Richardson  was  an  artist  of  the  first 
class ;  otherwise,  instead  of  writing  a  great  novel, 
he  would  merely  have  written  a  moral  tale.  And 
the  moral  of  Clarissa  is  by  no  means  negative ;  it 
is  not  simply,  as  was  Richardson's  original  purpose 
in  composing  Pamela,  to  warn  attractive  girls 
against  rakes ;  if  that  were  all  to  be  learned  from 
the  perusal  of  Clarissa,  the  mountain  would  have 
laboured  only  to  bring  forth  a  mouse.  Nor,  as  Mrs. 
Barbauld  remarks,  is  any  moral  teaching  contained 
in  the  fact  that  Clarissa  resisted  the  advances  of 
Lovelace ;  her  virtue  was  so  impregnable  that  she 
could  laugh  an  assault  to  scorn.  The  moral  is,  as 
Mrs.  Barbauld  finely  says,  "that  virtue  is  trium- 
phant in  every  situation  ;  that  in  circumstances  the 
most  painful  and  degrading,  in  a  prison,  in  a  brothel, 

86 


RICHARDSON 

in  grief,  in  distraction,  in  despair,  it  is  still  lovely, 
still  commanding,  still  the  object  of  our  veneration." 

As  Pamela  was  named  by  its  author.  Virtue  Re- 
warded, we  may,  as  has  often  been  said,  call  this 
masterpiece  Virtue  Triumphant.  When  Lady 
Bradshaigh  insisted  that  eternal  bliss  in  heaven 
was  not  so  satisfying  a  reward  (to  her  mind)  for 
Clarissa,  as  a  little  earthly  felicity,  Richardson 
wisely  responded,  "Clarissa  has  the  greatest  of 
triumphs  even  in  this  world.  The  greatest,  I  will 
venture  to  say,  even  in  and  after  the  outrage,  and 
because  of  the  outrage,  that  ever  woman  had." 

Across  the  title-page  of  one  of  his  most  striking 
and  powerful  novels,  Thomas  Hardy  wrote 

''a  pure  woman  faithfully  presented." 

But  many  shook  their  heads  when  Tess,  over- 
whelmed by  calamities,  returned  to  her  seducer, 
and  Mr.  Hardy  was  forced  from  his  customary  re- 
serve of  the  artist  to  the  platform  of  the  advocate 
in  order  to  defend  his  heroine.  Richardson  never 
had  to  defend  the  purity  of  Clarissa,  and  no  one  can 
imagine  any  stress  of  grief  or  terror  that  would  have 
placed  her  acquiescent  in  the  power  of  Lovelace. 
Whatever  the  lovely  Tess  may  have  been,  Clarissa 
is  certainly  "a  pure  woman  faithfully  presented." 

All  discussions  of  the  characters  in  this  immortal 
book  begin  and  end  with  the  heroine.     It  is  the  suf- 

87 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

fering  of  the  innocent,  and  not  of  the  guilty,  that 
inspires  the  deepest  emotions  of  pity  and  fear.  We 
may  with  justice  put  into  the  mouth  of  Clarissa  the 
infinitely  mournful  words  of  Cordelia : 

We  are  not  the  first 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurred  the  worst. 

In  the  month  of  November  1753,  appeared,  in 
both  octavo  and  duodecimo  form,  the  first  four 
volumes  of  a  work,  which  for  some  time  many 
sentimental  women  had  eagerly  awaited.  The 
title-pages  read  as  follows :  The  History  of  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  in  a  Series  of  Letters  published 
from  the  Originals.  By  the  Editor  of  Pamela  and 
Clarissa.  In  the  same  November  number  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  which  contained  the  first 
announcement  of  the  issue  of  this  novel,  we  find  the 
following  words,  evidently  inspired  by  Richardson 
himself,  and  containing  in  a  condensed  form  his 
apology  and  purpose.  "In  this  work,  of  which  4 
volumes  only  are  published,  the  author  has  com- 
pleated  a  plan  of  which  Pamela  and  Clarissa  are 
parts.  In  Pamela  he  intended  to  exhibit  the  beauty 
and  superiority  of  virtue  in  anunpoHshed  mind,  with 
the  temporary  reward  which  it  frequently  obtains, 
and  to  render  the  character  of  a  Hbertine  contemp- 
tible.   His  chief  design  in  Clarissa  was  to  shew  the 

88 


RICHARDSON 

excellence  of  virtue,  tho'  in  this  life  it  should  not  be 
rewarded,  and  to  represent  the  life  of  a  Ubertine, 
with  every  adventitious  advantage,  as  an  object  not 
only  of  detestation,  but  of  horror.  In  Sir  Charles 
Grandison,  he  proposed  to  display  the  superiority 
of  virtue  in  yet  another  light;  and  by  exhibiting 
the  character  and  actions  of  a  man  of  true  honour, 
to  shew  that  every  natural  and  accidental  advan- 
tage is  improved  by  virtue  and  piety ;  that  these 
polish  elegance,  heighten  dignity,  and  produce  uni- 
versal love,  esteem  and  veneration.  How  far  this 
important  design  is  effected,  the  world  will  soon  be 
able  to  judge,  as  the  last  volumes,  will  be  published 
in  the  beginning  of  the  year." 

This  promise  was  speedily  fulfilled;  in  Decem- 
ber the  fifth  octavo  and  the  fifth  and  sixth  duo- 
decimo volumes  appeared,  and  in  March  1754,  the 
publication  of  the  whole  work  was  completed  by  the 
issue  of  the  sixth  octavo  and  the  seventh  duodecimo 
volumes. 

We  see  by  the  important  statement  quoted  above 
from  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  that  Richardson's 
aim  in  his  last  novel  was  to  show  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness in  a  more  positive  manner  than  he  had  before 
attempted.  He  had  portrayed  the  allurements  of 
vice  in  Mr.  B.  and  in  Lovelace,  and  the  wisdom 
and  glory  of  resistance  in  Pamela  and  Clarissa ;  to 
crown  his  lifework  A  GOOD  MAN  was  necessary, 

89 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

who  should  have  all  the  natural  advantages  of  the 
rake,  combined  with  supreme  moral  excellence ; 
the  whole  building,  fitly  framed  together,  constitut- 
ing an  ideal  standard  of  human  conduct.  That 
seven  stout  volumes  should  be  necessary  to  make 
clear  this  paragon  merely  illustrates  Richardson's 
method.  It  would  have  saved  some  time  had  he 
not  written  at  all,  but  merely  referred  enquirers  to 
a  few  verses  in  the  Gospel  according  to  Matthew, 
where  the  same  purpose  is  fairly  well  accomplished 
in  considerably  less  space.  But  no  doubt  Richard- 
son knew  that  in  his  day  —  it  may  still  be  true  — 
there  are  many  persons  who  would  rather  read  a 
novel,  even  in  seven  volumes,  than  a  single  chapter 
of  the  Bible. 

Although  the  little  printer  always  followed  his 
own  instincts  in  the  end,  he  was  ever  ready  to  listen 
to  his  multitudinous  advisers.  His  shrewdness  is 
never  seen  to  better  advantage  than  when  he  pre- 
tends to  consider,  with  seriousness  and  deliberation, 
advice  that  he  secretly  knows  is  not  worth  the 
paper  on  which  it  is  written.  One  of  his  friends, 
deceived  by  the  courteous  gravity  with  which  Rich- 
ardson listened  to  every  trivial  suggestion,  became 
alarmed  lest  in  the  multitude  of  counsellors  he 
should  lose  his  safety,  so  he  inconsistently  joined 
their  number  by  advising  the  novelist  to  take  no 
advice.     "I  wish  you  would  take  up  a  resolution 

90 


RICHARDSON 

(which  perhaps  may  be  new  to  you)  of  neither  trust- 
ing others,  nor  distrusting  yourself,  too  much.  If 
you  bundle  up  the  opinions  of  bad  Judges  in  your 
head,  they  will  only  be  so  much  lumber  in  your 
way." 

Now  although  The  History  of  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son  was  apparently  written  "by  request,"  we  may 
be  sure  that  if  he  had  not  felt  the  spur  to  composi- 
tion in  his  own  mind,  he  would  not  have  constructed 
such  a  work  merely  to  please  his  friends.  That  he 
was  urged  is,  however,  sufficiently  clear.  After 
the  publication  of  Clarissa,  letters  began  to  flow  in, 
beseeching  him  to  add  to  his  works  the  portrait  of 
a  good  man.  On  1 6  December  1749,  Lady  Brads- 
haigh  wrote,  "You  are  ever  ready.  Sir,  to  ac- 
knowledge an  obligation  upon  my  strongly  soliciting 
you  to  resume  your  pen,  yet  will  you  not  give  me 
the  least  satisfaction,  not  a  ghmmering  of  hope? 
Won't  you.  Sir?  .  .  .  I  beheve  there  never  was 
a  fine  character  drawn  without  having  its  admirers 
(even  amongst  the  most  profligate)  if  not  its  imita- 
tors. And  as  I  know  with  the  good  man  you  would 
connect  the  fine  gentleman,  it  might,  I  hope,  be 
thought  worthy  of  imitation.  It  is  a  character  we 
want,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it ;  but  few  there  are  who 
deserve  it.  Do  but  try,  Sir,  what  good  you  can  do 
this  way ;  and  let  me  have  to  brag,  that  I  was  in- 
strumental in  persuading  you  to  it."     To  this  sup- 

91 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

plication,  Richardson  replied  under  date  of  9 
January  1750,  as  follows  :  "Dear  lady  !  what  shall 
I  say  ?  To  draw  a  character  that  the  better  half 
of  the  world,  both  as  to  number  and  worthiness,  I 
mean  the  women,  would  not  like ;  after  such  a  recep- 
tion too  as  Mr.  Hickman  has  met  with,  after  such 
kindness  shewn  to  that  of  Lovelace."  Yet,  either 
at  the  very  time  of  sending  this  half-negative  an- 
swer, or,  at  all  events,  very  shortly  after,  Richardson 
was  busy  with  not  only  the  plan,  but  the  execution, 
of  the  work  so  ardently  desired ;  for  by  the  month 
of  March,  portions  of  the  manuscript  were  privately 
circulating  among  his  intimate  friends,  like  the 
"sugred  sonnets"  of  Shakespeare.  This  throws  a 
curious  light  on  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Dewes,  dated  20 
August  1750:  "All  together,  time  of  life  too  ad- 
vanced, I  fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  think  of  a  new 
work.  And  then  the  task,  as  I  have  written  to  Mrs. 
Donnellan,  is  a  very  arduous  one.  To  draw  a  man 
that  good  men  would  approve,  and  that  young  ladies, 
in  such  an  age  as  this,  will  think  amiable,  —  tell 
me,  Madam,  is  not  that  an  arduous  task?"  We 
cannot  help  smiling  as  we  read  these  words,  and  we 
borrow  the  drunken  porter's  language  to  exclaim, 
"Faith,  here's  an  equivocator." 

We  even  know  with  considerable  accuracy  just 
how  far  he  had  progressed,  for  in  a  letter  to  Lady 
Bradshaigh,  dated  24  March  1750,  he  says,  "But 

92 


RICHARDSON 

my  Harriot !  —  and  do  you,  can  you  like  the  girl  ? 
I  have  designed  her  to  keep  the  middle  course,  be- 
tween Pamela  and  Clarissa ;  and  between  Clarissa 
and  Miss  Howe ;  or  rather,  to  make  her  what  I 
would  have  supposed  Clarissa  to  be,  had  she  not 
met  with  such  persecutions  at  home,  and  with  such 
a  tormentor  as  Lovelace.  She  interests  her  readers 
so  far,  as  to  make  them  wish  her  to  have  a  good 
man. 

"But  who  is  the  good  man  that  you  think  you  see 
at  a  little  distance  ?  —  In  truth  he  has  not  peeped 
out  yet."  Richardson  continued  to  favour  his 
friends  by  sending  them  portions  of  the  manuscript, 
and  every  morning,  in  his  beloved  grotto  at  North 
End,  he  read  what  he  had  written  to  a  select  circle. 
On  27  May  1750,  Colley  Cibber  wrote,  labouring 
under  great  excitement:  "I  have  just  finished  the 
sheets  you  favoured  me  with ;  but  never  found  so 
strong  a  proof  of  your  sly  ill-nature,  as  to  have  hung 
me  up  upon  tenters,  till  I  see  you  again.  Z — ds  ! 
I  have  not  patience  till  I  know  what's  become  of 
her.  —  Why,  you  !  I  don't  know  what  to  call  you  ! 
—  Ah  !  Ah  !  you  may  laugh  if  you  please  :  but  how 
will  you  be  able  to  look  me  in  the  face,  if  the  lady 
should  never  be  able  to  shew  hers  again  ?  What 
piteous,  d — d,  disgraceful,  pickle  have  you  plunged 
her  in  ?  For  God's  sake  send  me  the  sequel ;  or  —  I 
don't  know  what  to  say  !  —  After  all,  there  is  one 

93 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

hint  in  your  narration,  that  convinces  me,  Greville, 
though  he  was  seen  to  hght  from  his  chair  at  home, 
must  be  the  man  that  has  had  the  good  or  bad  dis- 
posal of  her.  My  girls  are  all  on  fire  and  fright  to 
know  what  can  possibly  become  of  her.  —  Take 
care  !  —  If  you  have  betrayed  her  into  any  shock- 
ing company,  you  will  be  as  accountable  for  it,  as  if 
you  were  yourself  the  monster  that  took  delight  in 
her  calamity.  Upon  my  soul  I  am  so  choaked  with 
suspense,  that  I  won't  tell  you  a  word  of  the  vast 
delight  some  had  in  Miss  Byron's  company,  till 
you  have  repeated  it,  by  letting  me  see  her  again 
without  the  least  blemish  upon  her  mind,  or  person ; 
though,  'till  you  brought  her  to  this  plunge,  I  could 
have  kissed  you  for  every  character  that  was  so 
busy  about  her.  But  —  O  Lord  !  send  me  some 
more,  and  quickly,  as  you  hope  ever  to  see,  or  hear 
again,  from  Your  deUghtfully  uneasy 

Friend  and  Servant, 
C.  Gibber." 

Three  years  later,  under  date  of  6  June  1753, 
Gibber  sent  a  particularly  characteristic  note,  show- 
ing his  unabated  interest  in  the  outcome  of  the  novel. 

"Sir,  The  dehcious  meal  I  made  of  Miss  Byron 
on  Sunday  last,  has  given  me  an  Appetite  for 
another  sUce  of  her  off  from  the  spit,  before  she  is 
served  up  to  the  PubHck  table;   if  about  5  oclock 

94 


RICHARDSON 

tomorrow  afternoon,  will  not  be  inconvenient  Mrs 
Brown,  &  I  will  come,  and  nibble  upon  a  bit  more  of 
her :  But  pray  let  your  whole  family,  with  Mrs 
Richardson  at  the  head  of  them,  come  in  for  their 
share." 

When  Richardson  essayed  to  write  Grandison,  he 
was  at  a  double  disadvantage.  He  chose  a  hero, 
instead  of  a  heroine :  and  he  forsook  the  familiar 
fields  of  low  and  middle-class  life,  and  ventured  into 
the  strange  domain  of  aristocratic  society.  He 
felt  like  Samson  shorn  of  his  strength ;  and  the 
chief  criticisms  that  are  to-day  leveled  against 
this  work,  were  made  in  advance  by  the  author 
himself.  In  one  of  his  many  letters  on  this 
subject,  he  says,  "How  shall  a  man  obscurely  situ- 
ated, never  delighting  in  public  entertainments,  nor 
in  his  youth  able  to  frequent  them,  from  narrowness 
of  fortune,  had  he  had  a  taste  for  them ;  one  of  the 
most  attentive  of  men  to  the  calls  of  his  business ; 
his  situation  for  many  years  producing  little  but 
prospects  of  a  numerous  family ;  a  business  that  sel- 
dom called  him  abroad,  where  he  might  in  the  course 
of  it,  see  and  know  a  little  of  the  world,  as  some  em- 
ployments give  opportunities  to  do ;  naturally  shy 
and  sheepish,  and  wanting  more  encouragement  by 
smiles,  to  draw  him  out,  than  any  body  thought  it 
worth  their  while  to  give  him  ;  and  blest,  (in  this  he 
will  say  blest),  with  a  mind  that  set  him  above  a 

95 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

sought-for  dependence,  and  making  an  absolute 
reliance  on  Providence  and  his  own  endeavours. 
How,  I  say,  shall  such  a  man  pretend  to  describe 
and  enter  into  characters  in  upper  life  ?  How  shall 
such  a  one  draw  scenes  of  busy  and  yet  elegant 
trifling  ? 

"Miss  M.  is  of  opinion,  that  no  man  can  be  drawn, 
that  will  appear  to  so  much  advantage  as  Harriot : 
I  own  that  a  good  woman  is  my  favourite  character ; 
and  that  I  can  do  twenty  agreeable  things  for  her, 
none  of  which  would  appear  in  a  striking  Hght  in 
a  man.  Softness  of  heart,  gentleness  of  manners, 
tears,  beauty,  will  allow  of  pathetic  scenes  in  the 
story  of  the  one,  which  cannot  have  place  in  that 
of  the  other."  Richardson  certainly  understood 
both  his  powers  and  his  limitations. 

The  question  of  how  Sir  Charles  should  act  in  af- 
fairs of  honour  gave  Richardson  not  a  little  trouble, 
and  he  doubtless  anticipated  the  smiles  of  twentieth- 
century  critics.  It  was  proper  that  Colonel  Morden 
should  fight  Lovelace,  for  the  Colonel  was  only  an 
admirable,  not  an  ideal  character ;  but  in  the  case 
of  Grandison,  it  would  never  do  to  have  him  engage 
in  duels,  nor  would  his  refusal  to  fight  free  him  from 
the  imputation  of  cowardice.  Richardson  held 
very  positive  views  concerning  the  vice  of  duelling, 
and  yet  his  ideal  man  must  be  ideally  brave.  Dr. 
Delany,  writing  in  1751,  said,  ''I  think  you  have 

96 


RICHARDSON 

many  difficulties  to  encounter  for  your  fine  gentle- 
man, an  epithet  not  often  understood ;  as  little 
known.  And  no  part  more  difficult  than  to  make 
him  brave,  and  avoid  duelling,  that  reigning  curse. 
Some  vanity  you  must  give  him,  of  shewing  his 
bravery,  that  he  may  dare  to  refuse  that  wicked, 
mean,  fashionable  vice.  A  proper  fortitude  of  mind, 
and  command  of  his  passions,  will  prevent  his  giving 
a  challenge ;  and  (a  greater  security  than  all)  his 
christian  virtue.  But  how  to  ward  off  a  challenge, 
and  preserve  his  character,  is  a  task  only  to  be  un- 
dertaken by  the  author  of  Clarissa."  How  Rich- 
ardson cut  this  Gordian  knot  we  all  know.  Per- 
haps there  was  no  better  way. 

The  stock  criticism  that  in  creating  Grandison, 
Richardson  made,  not  a  real  man,  but  merely  a 
pattern  of  all  the  virtues,  was  also  foreseen  by  the 
novehst,  and  he  did  his  best  to  overcome  the  diffi- 
culty. Writing  to  Miss  Mulso,  ii  July  1751,  he 
says,  ''Well,  but,  after  all,  I  shall  want  a  few  un- 
premeditated faults,  were  I  to  proceed,  to  sprinkle 
into  this  man's  character,  lest  I  should  draw  a. fault- 
less monster.  ...  I  would  not  make  him  guilty 
of  too  great  refinements :  I  would  draw  him  as  a 
mortal.  He  should  have  all  the  human  passions 
to  struggle  with ;  and  those  he  cannot  conquer  he 
shall  endeavour  to  make  subservient  to  the  cause  of 
virtue."  And,  in  response  to  Miss  Mulso's  fear 
H  97 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

that  the  ladies  will  think  Grandison  "too  wise"  to 
be  attractive,  Richardson  playfully  wrote,  "Dear, 
dear  girls,  help  me  to  a  few  monkey-tricks  to  throw 
into  his  character,  in  order  to  shield  him  from  con- 
tempt for  his  wisdom." 

Perhaps  the  most  amusing  advice  which  Richard- 
son received  came  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Skelton,  who 
insisted  that  in  the  same  novel  with  the  Good  Man 
there  should  appear  a  Bad  Woman.  "I  hope  you 
intend  to  give  us  a  bad  woman,  expensive,  imperi- 
ous, lewd,  and  at  last  a  drammer.  This  is  a  fruit- 
ful and  a  necessary  subject,  which  will  strike,  and 
entertain  to  a  miracle.  You  are  so  safe  already  with 
the  sex,  that  nothing  you  can  say  of  a  bad  woman 
will  hinder  your  being  a  favourite,  especially  if  now 
and  then,  when  your  she-devil  is  most  a  devil,  you 
take  occasion  to  remark  how  unlike  she  is  to  the 
most  beautiful,  or  modest,  or  gentle,  or  polite  part 
of  the  creation."  It  is  quite  possible  that  this  rev- 
erend gentleman  is  responsible  for  the  impossible 
character  of  Emily's  mother,  for  Richardson  always 
regarded  the  advice  of  the  clergy  as  ha\'ing  great 
weight.  At  any  rate,  a  year  later,  when  Richard- 
son informed  him  that  the  bad  woman  had  been  in- 
cluded, this  apostle  of  Christianity  in  rehgion  and 
NaturaHsm  in  art  wrote,  "I  am  glad  you  have  a  bad 
woman,  but  sorry  she  does  not  shew  herself.  Is  this 
natural?    Did  you  ever  know  a  bad  woman  that 

98 


RICHARDSON 

did  not  make  a  figure  in  her  way  ?  No,  no ;  the 
devil  always  takes  care  that  his  confessors  of  that 
sex  canonize  themselves."  How  wide  the  experi- 
ence of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Skelton  had  been  we  can  only 
conjecture. 

In  view  of  the  ultimate  pubhcation  of  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  in  seven  volumes,  it  is  interesting  to  note 
that  Richardson  originally  planned  to  make  it  a 
short  story,  to  call  it  The  Good  Man,  and  not  to 
have  it  published  until  after  his  death.  "I  have  no 
thoughts,"  he  writes  to  Lady  Bradshaigh,  "were 
I  to  finish  this  new  piece,  of  having  it  pubhshed  in 
my  life-time.  The  success  of  a  writer's  work  is 
better  insured,  when  the  world  knows  they  can  be 
troubled  with  no  more  of  his."  A  curious  remark 
to  come  from  the  author  of  Pamela  I  What  he  really 
feared  was  that  Grandison  was  not  up  to  the  stand- 
ard of  his  previous  works,  a  fear,  on  the  whole,  well 
grounded.  He  never  recovered  from  the  wonder 
aroused  in  his  heart  by  the  amazing  success  of 
Pamela  and  Clarissa;  and  he  could  not  bear  the 
thought  that  readers  might  say  his  genius  was  de- 
clining. No  doubt  this  was  one  reason  why  he 
allowed  such  a  variety  of  persons  to  read  the  manu- 
script. Writing  to  Lady  Bradshaigh,  24  February 
1753,  he  exclaims:  "Think  you.  Madam,  that  all 
these  honours  done  to  my  Clarissa,  (nor  hasPamela, 
the  poor  Pamela,  been  neglected  by  them),  do  not 

99 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

give  me  apprehensions  for  my  new  piece?  indeed 
they  do.  A  man  of  my  time  of  life  and  infirmities 
should  know  when  to  give  over.  There  would  have 
perhaps  been  a  greater  assurance  of  a  favourable 
reception,  had  I,  as  I  once  intended,  left  to  executors 
the  disposal  of  the  piece." 

He  was  frightened  also  by  the  length  of  the  book. 
On  21  June  1752,  he  writes,  "The  good  man,  alas  ! 
I  knew  not  what  the  task  was  which  I  undertook. 
He  is  grown  under  my  hands  from  a  thin  gentleman, 
as  I  designed  him,  to  a  gigantic  bulk."  Again,  two 
months  later  :  "I  hope  I  am  in  the  last  volume.  It 
is  run  into  prodigious  length.  When  I  can  get  to 
an  end,  I  will  revise,  in  hopes  to  shorten."  Three 
months  after  this :  "I  am  now  going  over  it  again, 
to  see  what  I  can  omit :  this  is  the  worst  of  all  my 
tasks,  and  what  I  most  dreaded.  Vast  is  the  fabric ; 
and  here  I  am  under  a  kind  of  necessity  to  grasp 
it  all,  as  I  may  say ;  to  cut  off,  to  connect ;  to  re- 
scind again,  and  reconnect.  Is  it  not  monstrous, 
that  I  am  forced  to  commit  acts  of  violence,  in  or- 
der to  bring  it  into  seven  twelve  volumes,  which  I 
am  determined  it  shall  not  exceed,  let  what  will 
happen?"     This  resolution  he  kept. 

Much  against  his  will,  he  had  to  rush  it  through 
the  press.  Some  scoundrelly  booksellers  in  Dublin, 
by  bribing  the  compositors,  secured  many  of  the 
sheets  before  the  day  of  publication  in  London,  and 

100 


RICHARDSON 

issued  a  pirated  edition  in  a  mangled  shape.  The 
honest  man  was  righteously  angry,  and  sent  out  a 
full  account  of  this  treachery.  But  the  mischief 
was  irreparable ;  he  obtained  no  satisfaction,  and 
his  own  copies  sent  to  Ireland  for  sale,  were  driven 
from  the  market  by  the  low  price  of  the  surreptitious 
edition.  The  composition  of  Joseph  Andrews,  and 
the  piracy  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  were  the  two 
injuries  that  Richardson  never  forgave.  Had  he 
possessed  a  keener  sense  of  humour,  he  might  have 
enjoyed  the  fun  in  Fielding's  parody,  and  enjoyed 
also  the  oddity  of  having  a  work,  wherein  was  set 
forth  the  ideal  combination  of  virtues,  stolen  by  a 
gang  of  rascally  printers. 

Sir  Charles  Grandison,  in  spite  of  its  many  ad- 
mirable qualities,  is  on  the  whole  inferior  to  Rich- 
ardson's other  books.  Its  inferiority  to  Clarissa  is 
apparent.  Many  critics,  on  the  other  hand,  rank  it 
above  Pamela,  and  a  very  pretty  quarrel  is  still  on, 
in  the  endeavour  to  decide,  not  which  one  of  Rich- 
ardson's books  is  the  best,  but  which  is  the  worst. 
The  false  morality  of  Pamela  has  bUnded  many 
readers  to  the  extraordinary  power  and  charm  of  the 
story.  If  we  omit  the  last  two  volumes  of  Pamela, 
which  are  not  an  integral  part  of  the  work  and  were 
added  later  by  an  unfortunate  decision  of  the 
author,  we  shall  surely  find  reasons  enough  to  place 
it  above  Grandison  in  literary  merit.     Character- 

lOI 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

drawing,  with  all  that  expression  includes,  keenness 
of  interest  in  the  succession  of  events,  freshness 
and  force  of  epistolary  style  —  in  all  these  respects 
Pamela  is  distinctly  superior.  The  hero  of  Grandi- 
son  is  so  little  less  than  the  angels  that  he  is  a  little 
more  that  human,  and  does  not  therefore  strongly 
appeal  to  us ;  as  for  the  two  women,  we  sympathise 
with  both  too  deeply,  to  be  wholly  moved  by  the 
misfortunes  of  either.  But  the  great  blot  on  Rich- 
ardson's last  novel  is,  apart  from  Clementina 
herself,  the  vast  deserts  of  talk  indulged  in  by  her 
father,  mother,  three  brothers,  uncle,  aunt,  cousin, 
lover,  governess,  maid,  and  attendant  father  Con- 
fessor. This,  on  Richardson's  part,  was  a  httle 
more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind.  To  be  sure, 
with  an  unconscious  humour  appreciated  by  all 
modern  readers,  Richardson  has  properly  grouped 
his  characters  in  his  list  of  Dramatis  Personce; 
he  calls  them,  with  a  felicity  of  expression  that  we 
cannot  but  admire,  MEN,  WOMEN,  and  ITAL- 
IANS. This  impossible  Italian  menagerie  is  an 
affliction  that  the  patient  reader  —  and  Richardson 
has  no  readers  that  are  otherwise  —  should  have 
been  spared.  The  roll-call  of  this  family  strikes  ter- 
ror to  the  heart  of  one  who  has  read  the  book,  as  he 
remembers  the  flood  of  talk  in  which  he  was  so  often 
engulfed.  Their  capacity  to  bore  simply  cannot  be 
overestimated  ;  it  was  doubtless  their  conversation, 

I02 


RICHARDSON 

rather  than  the  loss  of  Sir  Charles,  that  drove 
Clementina  to  madness.  The  "general"  is  an  un- 
mitigated ass ;  and  how  eagerly  we  long  to  have  the 
Chevalier  Grandison  for  once  forget  his  resolution 
on  duelling,  and  drive  the  cold  steel  through  this 
preposterous  cad.  Poor  Jeronymo  we  dismiss 
rather  in  sorrow  than  in  anger ;  he  is  not  so  intol- 
erable as  the  general,  and  yet  it  is  with  mixed  feel- 
ings that  we  watch  by  his  bedside.  His  recovery 
will  mean  more  talk.  We  can  only  say  to  him  in  the 
language  of  the  old  play 

"  Go  by,  Jeronymo  ;  go  by." 

While  Richardson  was  condensing  his  novel,  in 
order  to  contract  it  into  seven  volumes,  we  can  but 
wonder  at  the  opportunities  he  neglected.  It  is 
the  only  novel  he  wrote  that  is  really  too  long ;  for 
while  all  attempts  at  condensing  Clarissa  —  from 
Aaron  Hill  to  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  —  have  proved 
failures,  Sir  Charles  Grandison  might  easily  be  im- 
proved not  only  by  omitting  most  of  the  scenes  in 
Italy,  but  by  omitting  the  entire  last  volume.  Yet 
it  is  possible  that  the  fault  may  lie  with  us,  and  that 
we  have  failed  to  grasp  the  full  artistic  design  of  this 
monumental  work.  For  Richardson  certainly  un- 
derstood his  purpose  better  than  we  do,  and  in  the 
Preface  he  wrote,  regarding  the  immense  number  of 
letters  in  these  seven  volumes  :  "  As  many,  however, 
103 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

as  could  be  spared,  have  been  omitted.  There  is 
not  one  episode  in  the  whole,  nor,  after  SIR 
CHARLES  GRANDISON  is  introduced,  one  letter 
inserted  but  what  tends  to  illustrate  the  principal 
design." 

In  spite  of  serious  faults,  Sir  Charles  Grandison  is 
a  great  novel.  In  many  places  the  plot  is  managed 
with  consummate  skill,  and  with  a  sure  eye  for  dra- 
matic efifect.  Nothing  could  be  better  than  the 
first  appearance  of  the  hero.  Impatient  as  we  are  to 
see  him,  he  enters  the  stage  at  precisely  the  right 
instant  of  time.  We  can  scarcely  repress  an  in- 
stinct to  cheer.  This  skilful  introduction  of  Sir 
Charles  was  no  lucky  accident ;  it  had  been  care- 
fully studied  by  the  author.  Writing  to  Lady 
Bradshaigh,  who,  in  reading  the  manuscript,  had 
enquired  when  the  hero  was  to  appear,  he  said,  "He 
must  not  appear  till,  as  at  a  royal  cavalcade,  the 
drums,  trumpets,  fifes  and  tabrets,  and  many  a  fine 
fellow,  have  preceeded  him,  and  set  the  spectators 
agog,  as  I  may  call  it.  Then  must  he  be  seen  to 
enter  with  an  eclat ;  while  the  mob  shall  be  ready 
to  cry  out  huzza,  boys  !" 

Furthermore,  Richardson's  management  of  the 
plot  shows  great  skill  in  holding  the  reader  in  sus- 
pense. It  is  as  impossible  for  us  to  teU  how  the 
story  will  end,  as  it  was  for  Sir  Charles  himself  to 
know  which  of  the  two  women  he  would  ultimately 

104 


RICHARDSON 

marry.  Harriet  Byron's  agony  of  doubt,  with  the 
hope  deferred  that  maketh  the  heart  sick,  forms  one 
of  the  most  convincing  successions  of  scenes  in  fic- 
tion. Richardson  had  obtained  an  immense  ad- 
vantage in  holding  the  interest  of  the  readers  of 
Grandison  by  his  treatment  of  Clarissa ;  for  the  ruth- 
less ending  of  that  story  filled  every  one  who  followed 
Miss  Byron's  misfortunes  with  the  keenest  alarm. 
They  knew  that  the  author  was  fully  capable  of 
blasting  her  hopes  and  theirs,  and  they  could  only 
wait,  and  not  forecast,  the  outcome.  Had  Rich- 
ardson ended  Clarissa  happily,  no  one  would  have 
read  Grandison  with  much  anxiety  for  Harriet. 
Herein  lies  something  of  the  power  of  the  writer  of 
tragedies;  we  follow  the  fate  of  Mr,  Hardy's 
heroines  with  the  sharpest  apprehension,  while  the 
wildest  adventures  of  mere  romantic  heroes  do  not 
disturb  our  inward  calm. 

Sir  Charles  himself  cannot  be  dismissed  as  a  mere 
prig.  He  is  richly  dressed,  has  elaborate  manners, 
enjoys  high  social  rank,  but  is  a  man  for  all  that. 
The  fact  that  he  actually  loved  two  excellent  women, 
and  that  he  would  probably  have  succeeded  in  be- 
ing happy  with  either,  gave  great  trouble  to  Rich- 
ardson's feminine  admirers.  Lady  Bradshaigh 
bounced  off  her  chair  as  she  read  this  part  of  the 
story.  But  the  situation  was  really  by  no  means 
impossible.     It  would  have  been  perfectly  true  to 

105 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

life,  though  it  would  have  killed  this  or  any  other 
novel,  had  the  hero  met  a  third  woman,  of  equal 
charm  of  person  and  character,  and  ultimately 
married  her.  Such  utterly  unromantic  facts  con- 
stantly happen,  and  Richardson  was  endeavouring 
to  show  that  even  the  passion  of  love,  in  an  ideal 
man,  may  be  partially  guided  by  reason  and  good 
judgment  —  nay,  that  in  time,  it  may  be  wholly 
controlled.  But  Sir  Charles  is  no  iceberg;  and 
the  difference  —  not  fully  understood  by  himself  — 
between  his  pity  for  Clementina,  and  his  love  for 
Harriet,  is  wonderfully  well  portrayed  by  Richard- 
son. Had  Sir  Charles  never  met  Miss  Byron,  and 
also  had  he  succeeded  in  his  treaty  with  the  Italian 
family,  he  would  never  have  imagined  that  he  could 
love  any  one  but  Clementina,  and  would  have  been 
wholly  happy  with  her.  That  marriage  apparently 
proving  hopeless,  his  passionate  love  for  Harriet 
is  not  only  possible,  it  is  natural ;  and  his  proposal 
even  then  to  marry  Clementina  came  simply  from 
his  extraordinarily  nice  sense  of  honour,  the  struggle 
that  it  cost  him  being  terrible  in  its  intensity.  For 
as  lookers-on  often  see  points  in  the  game  hidden 
from  the  players,  it  is  evident  to  the  reader  that  in 
his  second  ItaHan  journey,  and  even  while  treating 
with  the  family  of  Clementina,  Harriet  Byron  pos- 
sesses the  hero's  heart.  The  relation  of  Sir  Charles 
to  these  two  women,  in  spite  of  the  adverse  criticism 

io6 


RICHARDSON 

it  has  aroused,  seems  to  be  only  an  exhibition  of 
Richardson's  skill,  and  his  knowledge  of  human 
nature. 

The  madness  of  Clementina,  though  a  little  too 
fully  elaborated,  is  deeply  affecting.  In  a  time 
when  the  authority  of  the  classics  was  greater  than 
it  is  to-day,  Thomas  Warton  said  :  'T  know  not 
whether  even  the  madness  of  Lear  is  wrought  up 
and  expressed  by  so  many  little  strokes  of  nature 
and  passion.  It  is  absolute  pedantry  to  prefer  and 
compare  the  madness  of  Orestes,  in  Euripides,  to 
this  of  Clementina." 

It  is  curious,  that  as  it  was  the  composition  of  a 
Complete-Letter-Writer  that  led  Richardson  to 
write  Pamela,  so,  one  of  the  minor  objects  of  his  last 
novel  was  to  furnish  for  the  unsophisticated  a  man- 
ual of  etiquette.  In  the  same  number  of  the  Gentle- 
man's Magazine  that  contained  the  first  announce- 
ment of  the  appearance  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison, 
there  was  a  letter  to  Mr.  Urban,  defending  the 
length  and  minuteness  of  incident  in  the  work. 
The  writer  then  adds  :  "All  the  recesses  of  the  hu- 
man heart  are  explor'd,  and  its  whole  texture  un- 
folded. Such  a  knowledge  of  the  polite  world,  of 
men  and  manners,  may  be  acquired  from  an  atten- 
tive perusal  of  this  work  as  may  in  a  great  measure 
supply  the  place  of  the  tutor  and  the  boarding 
school.     Young  persons  may  learn  how  to  act  in  all 

107 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

the  important  conjunctures,  and  how  to  behave 
gracefully,  properly,  and  politely,  in  all  the  com- 
mon occurrences  of  life."  The  fact  that  Richard- 
son could  not  shake  himself  wholly  free  from  the 
manual-of-etiquette  style  in  which  he  began  his 
literary  career,  accounts  not  only  for  many  of  the 
stilted  conversations  that  disfigure  his  works,  but 
goes  far  toward  explaining  why  the  character  of 
Sir  Charles  is  so  offensive  to  many  readers.  A 
hero  who  is  to  set  styles  in  language  and  in  dress 
must  never  forget  himself ;  and  a  man  who  never 
forgets  himself  cannot  be  wholly  admirable. 

Sir  Charles  Grandison,  although  many  of  its  pages 
are  aglow  with  the  fire  of  genius,  does  not  reach, 
either  in  art  or  in  moral  instruction,  the  highest 
success.  Its  artistic  defects  are  manifest;  and 
its  failure  as  an  edifying  work  may  be  summed  up 
by  saying  that  it  called  the  righteous,  and  not  the 
sinners,  to  repentance.  Richardson  himself  felt 
this,  for  discussing  this  very  book,  he  said  :  "  Good 
people  may  approve  the  morality  of  my  writings. 
But  good  people  want  not  such  for  themselves; 
and  what  bad  ones  have  they  converted?"  The 
difficulty  is,  of  course,  that  Sir  Charles,  instead  of 
converting,  only  irritates  the  ungodly. 

There  was  one  fair  saint  who  saw  no  fleck  of  fail- 
ure in  the  work.  The  lovely  Frau  Klopstock  wrote  : 
"You  have  since  written  the  manly  Clarissa,  with- 

io8 


RICHARDSON 

out  my  prayer :  oh  you  have  done  it,  to  the  great 
joy  and  thanks  of  all  your  happy  readers.  Now 
you  can  write  no  more,  you  must  write  the  history 
of  an  Angel."  Had  Richardson  elected  to  under- 
take this  task,  he  could  have  found  no  better  sub- 
ject than  the  beautiful  woman  who  suggested  it. 

Romances  had  been  more  or  less  common  and 
popular  in  England  since  the  time  of  Malory's 
wonderful  Morte  Darthur,  printed  by  Caxton  in 
1485.  But  the  English  novel  was  not  born  imtil 
the  eighteenth  century  —  that  century  of  begin- 
nings ;  and  its  father  was  no  less  a  personage  than 
Daniel  Defoe.  It  is  true  that  the  structure  of  his 
works  is  singularly  bare  and  crude.  He  had  no 
conception  of  the  proper  handling  of  a  plot.  All 
that  is  implied  by  the  expression  "evolution  of  a 
story,"  so  beautifully  exemplified  in  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  is  conspicuous  in  Defoe  mainly  by  its  ab- 
sence. Events  in  Defoe's  novels  succeed  one 
another  merely  in  chronological  order,  like  the 
pages  of  a  diary.  But  he  was  the  first  man  in  Eng- 
land to  write  a  genuine  realistic  novel,  showing,  in 
the  form  of  a  story,  the  development  of  a  charac- 
ter taken  from  actual  contemporary  life.  If  Moll 
Flanders  (1722)  is  not  in  every  respect  as  properly 
classed  by  the  term  "realistic  novel"  as  is  Esther 
Waters  (1894),  what  terminology  can  be  invented 

109 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

to  place  it  more  accurately?    Defoe  might  hon- 
estly have  adapted  Joseph  Hall's  saying,  and  cried, 

"  I  first  adventure :  follow  me  who  list, 
And  be  the  second  English  novelist." 

We  cannot,  therefore,  concur  with  a  common 
opinion  that  the  first  man  in  England  to  write 
novels  was  Samuel  Richardson.  He  was  the  sec- 
ond, not  the  first ;  but  of  the  modern  analytical 
novel,  he  was  the  true  progenitor.  Defoe's  method 
was  realistic,  but  not  psychological.  Richardson, 
on  the  other  hand,  studied  and  portrayed  with 
tireless  assiduity  the  secrets  of  the  soul.  For  al- 
though his  avowed  object  was  didactic,  no  sooner 
did  he  begin  to  write  than  he  became  absorbed 
in  the  faithful  delineation  of  human  hearts. 

Richardson  was  wise  in  selecting  the  epistolary 
style,  for  at  that  once  great  art  —  now  lost —  he 
was  a  master  hand.  He,  like  many  others  in  eigh- 
teenth-century times,  wrote  private  letters  with 
the  same  care  that  manuscript  was  prepared  for 
the  press.  He  made  copies  of  his  correspondence 
—  both  letters  sent  and  received ;  they  circulated 
among  his  intimate  friends,  and  were  enjoyed  in 
concert,  as  an  evening  party  enjoys  a  good  book 
read  aloud.  The  hurry  and  worry  of  more  modern 
times,  and,  above  all,  cheap  postage,  have  quite 
destroyed  that  once  fine  art. 

no 


RICHARDSON 

Richardson  knew  also  the  value  of  the  epis- 
tolary method  for  soul-revelation.  The  minds  and 
heart-s  of  all  his  prominent  characters  were  to  be 
laid  absolutely  bare  before  the  reader,  and  there  is  no 
instrument  like  a  confidential  letter  for  this  process 
of  vivisection.  We  do  not  need  the  authority  of 
Schopenhauer  to  be  told  that  a  letter  is  the  surest 
key  to  the  writer's  personality ;  for  in  a  long  letter  it 
is  more  difficult  to  conceal  one's  actual  sentiments, 
than  by  the  tone  of  the  voice  or  the  expression  of 

the  features. 

"There's  no  art 
To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face." 

It  is  not  quite  true  to  say,  with  Mrs.  Barbauld, 
that  Richardson  invented  the  manner  of  writing 
stories  in  letters ;  and  yet  he  may  fairly  be  called 
the  originator  of  the  epistolary  novel.  No  one 
had  ever  used  this  style  with  anything  like  the 
effect  attained  by  Richardson.  As  M.  Texte  re- 
marks, in  Richardson  "the  epistolary  novel  has 
really  become  what  it  should  be,  a  form  of  the  ana- 
lytical novel.  If  it  is  not  this,  it  is  nothing,  and  the 
originality  of  Richardson  consists  in  the  very  fact 
that  he  made  it  such."  He  adopted  this  method, 
of  course,  not  altogether  by  conscious  choice,  but 
partly  by  accident  and  necessity.  If  he  had  not 
begun  the  Complete-Letter- Writer,  he  might  never 
have  begun  Pamela;  and,  although  no  gulf  among 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

books  is  wider  than  the  gulf  separating  etiquette- 
manuals  from  realistic  novels,  Richardson  found  the 
crossing  easy  and  natural. 

At  the  outset  of  his  literary  career,  Richardson 
was  certainly  not  a  conscious  artist;  that  was  to 
come  with  the  extraordinary  development  of  his 
unsuspected  powers.  How  surprisingly  different 
in  the  attitude  towards  his  art  is  the  Preface  to 
Pamela  from  the  Preface  to  Clarissa !  In  the 
latter,  he  says,  "All  the  letters  are  written  while 
the  hearts  of  the  writers  must  be  supposed  to  be 
wholly  engaged  in  their  subjects  (the  events  at 
the  time  generally  dubious)  :  so  that  they  abound 
not  only  with  critical  situations,  but  with  what 
may  be  called  instantaneous  descriptions  and 
reflections  (proper  to  be  brought  home  to  the 
breast  of  the  youthful  reader ;)  as  also  with  affect- 
ing conversations ;  many  of  them  written  in  the 
dialogue  or  dramatic  way."  The  man  who  penned 
those  words  had  become  a  self-conscious  artist ; 
and  his  excitement  while  in  the  fever  of  composi- 
tion reminds  one  of  the  well-known  anecdotes  of 
later  novehsts.  He  wept  bitterly  over  Clarissa's 
fate,  as  Thackeray  sobbed  at  the  exit  of  Colonel 
Newcome,  and  as  Hawthorne's  voice  involuntarily 
rose  and  fell  while  reading  to  his  wife  the  final 
declaration  of  Dimmesdale. 

It  was  the  combination  of  the  Philistine  and  the 

112 


RICHARDSON 

Artist  in  this  man  that  partly  explains  the  variety 
of  persons  whom  he  impressed.  That  Lady 
Montagu,  and  the  maid  curling  her  mistress's  hair, 
should  have  each  sobbed  over  Clarissa  is  a  sig- 
nificant fact.  Horace  Walpole  saw  in  him  only  the 
didactic  Philistine,  and  therefore  despised  him ; 
Dr.  Young  and  Thomas  Edwards  saw  in  him  only 
the  didactic  Philistine,  and  therefore  admired 
him ;  Colley  Gibber  and  Diderot  saw  in  him  the 
great  Artist,  and  worshipped  him.  Richardson's 
personality  was  a  singular  union  of  qualities  usually 
contrary,  and  much  in  his  writing  and  in  its  effect 
can  be  explained  only  by  keeping  in  mind  the 
double  nature  of  the  man. 

For  it  is  beyond  dispute  that  this  solemn  pater- 
familias, drinking  tea  with  sentimental  women, 
and  apparently  foreordained  to  be  a  milksop,  was 
in  actuality  one  of  the  most  stern  and  uncompro- 
mising realists  that  ever  handled  a  pen.  Once  at 
his  desk,  all  tincture  of  squeamishness  vanished. 
His  reaHsm  was  bolder  and  more  honest  than  Field- 
ing's and  shrank  from  nothing  that  might  lend 
additional  power  to  the  scene,  or  that  might 
deepen  the  shades  of  character.  He  refused  abso- 
lutely to  follow  advice  that  conflicted  with  his  aim 
and  method.  He  knew  his  work  was  original  in 
design,  plan,  and  treatment,  and  he  fully  trusted 
only  the  instincts  of  his  own  heart.  A  friend  wrote, 
1  113 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

speaking  of  the  critics  who  wished  him  to  introduce 
changes,  "Another  defect  in  those  that  are  called 
the  best  judges  is,  that  they  generally  go  by  rules 
of  art;  whereas  yours  is  absolutely  a  work  of 
nature.  One  might,  for  instance,  as  well  judge  of 
the  beauties  of  a  prospect  by  the  rules  of  architec- 
ture, as  of  your  Clarissa  by  the  laws  of  novels  and 
romances.  A  piece  quite  of  a  new  kind  must  have 
new  rules,  if  any ;  but  the  best  of  all  is,  following 
nature  and  common  sense.  Nature,  I  think, 
you  have  followed  more  variously,  and  at  the 
same  time  more  closely,  than  anyone  I  know. 
For  Heaven's  sake,  let  not  those  sworn  enemies  of 
all  good  works  (the  critics)  destroy  the  beauties 
you  have  created." 

Richardson's  Reahsm,  where  it  does  not  conflict 
with  his  didacticism,  is  indeed  absolute.  In  begin- 
ning his  career  as  a  novelist,  he  forsook  everything 
that  was  generally  understood  by  the  term  Fiction. 
Romantic  adventures,  supernatural  machinery, 
remote  countries,  the  characters  and  customs  of 
chivalry,  and  the  splendour  of  historical  setting, 
he  resolutely  brushed  aside.  He  took  his  own 
country,  his  own  time ;  and  instead  of  selecting 
for  protagonist  a  princess,  he  selected  a  housemaid. 
This  is  Realism,  as  distinguished  from  Romanti- 
cism ;  and  though  there  was  a  moral  basis  to  his  • 
story,  the  realistic  method  was  as  uncompromising 

114 


RICHARDSON 

as  Zola's.  Richardson  often  received  such  advice 
as  the  following,  and  what  he  thought  of  it,  his 
novels  sufficiently  show.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  your 
work  is  what  you  call  long.  I  am  excessively 
impatient  to  see  it.  And  shall  certainly  think  it 
too  short,  as  I  did  Clarissa,  although  it  should 
run  out  into  seven  folios.  The  wotld  will  think 
so  too,  if  it  is  suihciently  larded  with  facts,  inci- 
dents, adventures,  &c.  The  generality  of  readers 
are  more  taken  with  the  driest  narrative  of  facts, 
if  they  are  facts  of  importance,  than  with  the 
purest  sentiments,  and  the  noblest  lessons  of 
morality.  Now,  though  you  write  above  the  taste 
of  the  many,  yet  ought  it  not  to  be,  nay,  is  it  not, 
your  chief  design,  to  benefit  the  many  ?  But  how 
can  you  cure  their  mental  maladies,  if  you  do  not 
so  wrap  up  your  physic  as  to  make  it  pass  their 
palates?  .  .  .  Therefore  stuff  your  works  with 
adventures,  and  wedge  in  events  by  way  of  prim- 
ings." 

A  good  motto  for  Richardson's  novels  may  be 
found  in  what  he  said  just  before  the  appearance 
of  Grandison.  "I  think  the  characters,  the  senti- 
ments, are  all  different  from  any  of  those  in  my 
two  former  pieces,  though  the  subjects  are  still 
love  and  nonsense,  men  and  women."  Love  and 
nonsense,  men  and  women  —  the  phrase  indicates 
fully  the  subject-matter  and  the  exclusive  aim  of 

"5 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

the  avowed  realist.  "  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Johnson, 
"  there  is  more  knowledge  of  the  heart  in  one  let- 
ter of  Richardson's,  than  in  all  '  Tom  Jones.'  " 
Erskine  :  "  Surely,  sir,  Richardson  is  very  tedious." 
Johnson  :  ''Why,  sir,  if  you  were  to  read  Richard- 
son for  the  story,  your  impatience  would  be  so 
much  fretted  that  you  would  hang  yourself."  The 
Doctor's  remarks,  as  usual,  are  worth  serious 
reflection.  Fielding  was  a  novelist  of  manners; 
in  that  sense  a  realist.  But  Richardson  was  an 
analyst,  a  psychologist,  and  he  cared  nothing  for  the 
course  of  the  story  so  long,  as  with  infinite  patience, 
he  followed  accurately  the  windings  of  the  heart. 
In  this  respect,  Clarissa  is  like  Anna  Karenina. 
The  abundance  of  detail  destroys  the  artistic 
contour  of  the  story,  but  it  represents  what  these 
two  men  endeavoured  to  represent  —  Hfe. 

The  ProHxity  of  Richardson's  novels  is  insepa- 
rable from  their  subject  and  manner  of  composition. 
They  are,  in  truth,  works  of  prodigious  length. 
To  have  read  Clarissa  entirely  through  is  in  itself 
an  achievement,  like  having  climbed  the  Matter- 
horn.  Richardson  was  fully  conscious  of  the 
immense  mass  of  words  he  had  written,  and  knew 
that  it  would  lose  him  many  readers.  "Every 
reader  must  judge  for  him  or  herself,  as  to  the 
supposed  prolixity,"  he  said,  "I  am  contented  that 
he  or  she  should."     Sometimes  he  seems  to  suspect 

ii6 


RICHARDSON 

the  yawns  of  future  generations.  "Have  I  not 
written  a  monstrous  quantity ;  nineteen  or  twenty 
close  written  volumes?"  His  method  of  composi- 
tion necessitated  this,  for  instead  of  filling  up  a 
framework,  he  wrote  one  letter,  without  knowing 
what  he  would  say  in  the  next.  I  frankly  confess 
I  admire  his  courage  and  lack  of  amenity  in  launch- 
ing such  leviathans.  In  a  day  when  we  are  greeted 
by  so-called  dramatic  stories,  whose  sole  claim  to 
popularity  Hes  in  their  abihty  to  furnish  enough 
fighting  to  keep  the  reader  breathless,  it  is  refresh- 
ing by  way  of  contrast  to  see  Richardson  writing 
"the  history  of  a  young  lady"  in  seven  volumes. 
The  same  unflinching  courage  that  made  him  lead 
his  readers  into  a  brothel,  made  him  persevere 
through  a  tremendously  long  journey.  He  feared 
the  charge  of  Indelicacy  as  little  as  the  complaint 
of  Tediousness.  He  set  out  to  accompHsh  a  certain 
result  in  his  own  way. 

All  EngHsh  novehsts  who  have  lived  since  1748 
have  learned  something  from  Richardson.  Jane 
Austen,  though  her  keen  sense  of  humour  and 
hatred  of  cant  made  her  see  plainly  his  faults, 
studied  him  and  his  methods  with  the  utmost  zeal. 
Her  astonishing  power  in  representing  the  man- 
ners and  conversations  of  actual  people  was  largely 
developed  by  Richardson.  What  is  true  of  her 
is  true  of  all  the  great  masters  of  English  fiction. 

117 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

The  honest  printer  made  an  impression  on  the 
history  of  the  novel  far  deeper  and  more  lasting 
than  his  best  fonts  of  type  could  produce. 

Nothing  is  more  interesting  or  instructive  to 
the  student  of  literary  development  than  to  notice 
how  often  the  mightiest  influences  in  hterature  are 
unconscious  in  their  origin.  The  whole  EngHsh 
Romantic  movement,  which  shaped  the  Hterature 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  which  reached  its 
first  climax  in  Sir  Walter  Scott,  began  with  a 
total  absence  of  conscious  aim  and  method.  Such 
is  the  case  also  in  the  history  of  the  sentimental 
novel  in  England.  When,  a  half-century  old, 
Samuel  Richardson  turned  from  his  Complete- 
Letter-Writer  to  construct  the  history  of  Pamela, 
nothing  could  have  been  farther  from  his  thoughts 
than  the  results  that  were  finally  accomphshed 
from  so  unpretentious  a  beginning.  The  success  of 
his  novel  astonished  him,  but  to  its  far-reaching 
consequences  he  was  naturally  blind.  A  temporary 
fad  must  pass  entirely  away  before  we  can  see  what, 
if  any,  its  results  are  to  be.  And  Pamela  was 
distinctly  a  fad.  In  the  Geyitleman' s  Magazine 
for  January  1741,  we  read,  "Several  encomiums  on 
a  Series  of  Familiar  Letters,  published  hut  last 
month,  entitled  Pamela  or  Virtue  Rewarded,  came 
too  late  for  this  Magazine,  and  we  believe  there  will 

118 


RICHARDSON 

be  little  Occasion  for  inserting  them  in  our  next, 
because  a  Second  Edition  will  then  come  out  to  sup- 
ply the  Demands  in  the  Country,  it  being  Judged  in 
Town  as  great  a  sign  of  Want  of  Curiosity  not  to 
have  read  Pamela,  as  not  to  have  seen  the  French 
and  Italian  Dancers."  Such  was  the  manner  in 
which  fashionable  society  took  up  the  fortunes  of 
the  fictitious  housemaid ;  and  when  other  literary- 
sensations  appeared,  Pamela  was  neglected  by  this 
class  of  readers.  But  Richardson,  in  this  book,  and 
in  the  two  others  which  succeeded  it,  made  an 
appeal  to,  and  an  impression  on  the  emotional 
side  of  humanity  which  was  by  no  means  to  pass 
away.  The  Sentimental  Novel  had  been  created 
and  was  to  appear  in  a  variety  of  forms,  growing 
side  by  side  with  the  ever  increasing  Romantic 
movement.  Lady  Bradshaigh,  in  a  characteristic 
postscript  to  a  letter  of  Harriet  Byron  proportions, 
written  9  January  1750,  begged  to  know  the  proper 
meaning  of  the  new  expression  sentimental.  "Pray, 
Sir,  give  me  leave  to  ask  you  (I  forgot  it  before) 
what,  in  your  opinion,  is  the  meaning  of  the  word 
sentimental^  so  much  in  vogue  amongst  the  polite, 
both  in  town  and  country  ?  In  letters  and  common 
conversation,  I  have  asked  several  who  make  use 
of  it,  and  have  generally  received  for  answer,  it 
is  —  it  is  —  sentimental.  Everything  clever  and 
agreeable  is  comprehended  in  that  word ;  but  am 
119 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

convinced  a  wrong  interpretation  is  given,  because 
it  is  impossible  everything  clever  and  agreeable 
can  be  so  common  as  this  word.  I  am  frequently 
astonished  to  hear  such  a  one  is  a  sentimental 
man ;  we  were  a  sentimental  party ;  I  have  been 
taking  a  sentimental  walk.  And  that  I  might  be 
reckoned  a  little  in  the  fashion,  and,  as  I  thought, 
show  them  the  proper  use  of  the  word,  about  six 
weeks  ago,  I  declared  I  had  just  received  a  senti- 
mental letter.  Having  often  laughed  at  the  word, 
and  found  fault  with  the  application  of  it,  and  this 
being  the  first  time  I  ventured  to  make  use  of  it, 
I  was  loudly  congratulated  upon  the  occasion : 
but  I  should  be  glad  to  know  your  interpretation 
of.it." 

And  so  should  we.  But  Richardson  doubtless 
discovered  his  own  inability  to  define  a  word  with 
such  various  connotation,  or  he  never  would  have 
been  guilty  of  neglecting  a  lady's  postscript. 

The  first  and  most  striking  evidence  of  Richard- 
son's influence  upon  English  fiction  appeared  in  a 
way  that  must  have  made  him  momentarily  regret 
that  he  had  ever  written  at  all.  Although  Joseph 
Andrews  is  certainly  not  a  sentimental  novel,  it 
must  be  classed  among  the  results  of  Pamela; 
and  Richardson  was  willing  to  believe  that  the 
great  popularity  of  his  rival  was  really  due  to 
himself  —  that  he  was  the  unwilHng  father  of  Field- 

120 


RICHARDSON 

ing's  good  fortune.  "  The  Pamela,"  he  said, 
"which  he  abused  in  his  Shamela,"  [showing  that 
Richardson  believed  Fielding  to  have  been  the 
author  of  "Conny  Keyber's"  parody]  "taught 
him  how  to  write  to  please,  tho'  his  manners  are 
so  different.  Before  his  Joseph  Andrews  (hints 
and  names  taken  from  that  story,  with  a  lewd  and 
ungenerous  engraftment)  the  poor  man  wrote 
without  being  read." 

But  Richardson  was  responsible  for  something 
else  than  Fielding,  so  curiously  does  Divinity 
shape  our  ends.  As  it  was  the  philosophy  of  the 
devout  Berkeley  that  brought  into  being  the  writ- 
ings of  the  great  sceptic  Hume,  so  the  novels  of 
the  prim  printer  were  immensely  influential  in 
producing  Tristram  Shandy  and  The  Sentimental 
Journey,  the  latter  of  which  Richardson  was  for- 
tunate enough  not  to  live  to  see.  The  famous 
starling  was  meant  to  appeal,  and  did  appeal  to 
a  generation  that  had  read  Clarissa  with  swimming 
eyes.  Those  were  golden  days  for  the  sentimental 
writers,  for  before  the  tears  on  the  faces  of  Sterne's 
readers  were  fairly  dried,  appeared  Mackenzie's 
Man  of  Feeling  (1771),  and  the  lachrymose  foun- 
tains flowed  afresh.  English  literature  at  that 
period  was  simply  moist,  and  though  we  call  many 
of  those  books,  like  the  Man  of  Feeling,  and  the 
Fool  of  Quality,  dry,  it  is,  under  the  circumstances, 

121 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

hardly  a  happy  appellation.  More  than  that, 
Richardson's  sentiment  prepared  English  readers 
for  Ossian,  the  mighty  influence  of  which  on  nations 
and  individuals  is  one  of  the  most  striking  facts 
in  literary  history.  Nay,  the  influence  of  the 
didactic  printer  may  be  worked  out  even  in  such 
extraordinary  religious  movements  as  the  Wesleyan 
revival,  which  found  the  fields  white  for  the  har- 
vest. The  river  of  Sentiment,  rising  from  the  not 
too  clear  well  in  Pamela,  became  a  veritable  flood, 
overrunning  with  resistless  force  not  only  England, 
but  France  and  Germany  as  well. 

The  direct  influence  of  Richardson  in  Germany 
was  exceedingly  great.  We  have  seen  how  emo- 
tional women  Hke  Frau  Klopstock  devoured  his 
novels.  Klopstock  himself  wrote  an  ode  on 
Clarissa's  Death,  and  the  novel  was  translated  in 
eight  volumes  by  Dr.  Haller,  Vice-Chancellor  of 
the  University  of  Gottingen.  Gellert,  the  pro- 
fessor of  rhetoric  at  Leipsic,  translated  Pamela 
and  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  he  remarked, 
''I  have  formerly  wept  away  some  of  the  most 
remarkable  hours  of  my  Hfe,  in  a  sort  of  delicious 
misery,  over  the  seventh  volume  of  Clarissa  and 
the  fifth  of  Gra7idison."  In  a  sort  of  delicious 
misery  —  the  words  should  not  be  forgotten,  for 
they  precisely  express  the  sensation  aroused  and 
enjoyed  by  contemporary  readers  of  Richardson, 

122 


RICHARDSON 

and  of  the  sentimental  literature  that  followed  in 
his  wake  of  tears.  "Immortal  is  Homer,"  shouted 
this  German  scholar,  "but  among  Christians 
the  British  Richardson  is  more  immortal  still," 
a  delightful  expression ;  for  the  writer's  enthusiasm 
must  make  us  forgive  the  comparative  of  such  an 
adjective.  A  number  of  German  novelists  essayed 
stories  in  the  Richardsonian  manner,  but  it  was  not 
only  in  the  third  and  fourth  rate  writers  that  the 
influence  of  the  Englishman  may  be  seen.  Wie- 
land,  who  had  read  Pamela  in  French,  was  charmed, 
and  after  the  perusal  of  Grandison,  he  turned  the 
fortunes  of  Clementina  into  a  play,  and  thought 
of  composing  a  book  which  should  be  called  Letters 
from  Charles  Grandison  to  his  pupil  Emily  Jervois. 
We  can  only  imagine  the  gush  of  sentiment  flowing 
from  a  volume  with  such  a  title. 

Lessing  was  profoundly  influenced  by  Richard- 
son, for,  in  his  hatred  of  the  French  domination  of 
the  theatre,  he  greeted  everything  English  with 
enthusiasm.  Those  who  have  attentively  read 
Lessing's  prose  play  Miss  Sara  Sampson  may 
easily  detect  the  influence  of  our  English  novelist. 
Richardson  was  even  parodied  in  Germany,  and 
Grandison  der  Zweite  (i 760-1 762)  is  proof  that 
there  were  readers  enough  and  to  spare  of  the 
struggles  of  Sir  Charles.  An  edition  of  Grandison 
der  Zweite  appeared  so  late  as  1803. 

123 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

In  Wilhelm  Meister,  in  a  discussion  that  arose 
upon  the  novel  and  the  drama,  we  find  the  follow- 
ing words:  ''But  in  the  novel,  it  is  chiefly  senti- 
ments  and  events  that  are  exhibited ;  in  the  drama, 
it  is  characters  and  deeds.  The  novel  must  go 
slowly  forward ;  and  the  sentiments  of  the  hero,  by 
some  means  or  other,  must  restrain  the  tendency 
of  the  whole  to  unfold  itself  and  to  conclude.  ,  .  . 
The  novel-hero  must  be  suffering,  at  least  he  must 
not  in  a  high  degree  be  active ;  in  the  dramatic 
one,  we  look  for  activity  and  deeds.  Grandison, 
Clarissa,  Pamela,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Tom 
Jones  himself,  are,  if  not  suffering,  at  least  retard- 
ing personages ;  and  the  incidents  are  all,  in  some 
sort,  modelled  by  their  sentiments."  Even  had 
Goethe  not  named  the  characters  of  Richardson 
in  this  passage,  there  could  have  been  no  doubt 
concerning  the  novels  he  had  chiefly  in  mind.  And 
the  immense  contribution  that  Goethe  made  to  the 
Sentimental  movement  in  his  Sorrows  of  Werther 
(1774)  was  in  a  large  measure  the  indirect  result 
of  the  writings  of  Richardson.  For  while  Goethe 
was  more  directly  affected  by  Rousseau's  Nouvelle 
Heloise  (1760),  Rousseau  might  never  have  written 
his  book  at  all  had  it  not  been  for  the  appearance 
of  Clarissa.  Mr.  Birrell  remarks,  "Without  Cla- 
rissa there  would  have  been  no  Nouvelle  Heloise, 
and  had  there  been  no  Nouvelle  Helotse,  everyone 

124 


RICHARDSON 

of  us  would  have  been  somewhat  different  from 
what  we  are." 

This  remark  leads  us  to  dwell  lastly  on  Richard- 
son's influence  in  France.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that 
Frenchmen  —  the  exact  opposite  of  Richardson  in 
the  respective  emphasis  they  place  on  Art  and 
Morality  —  should  have  been  even  more  profoundly 
influenced  by  the  puritanical  printer  than  the  men 
and  women  of  his  own  nation.  The  influence  of 
Richardson  in  France  has  received  so  adequate 
treatment  by  M.  Joseph  Texte,  in  his  admirable 
work,  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  et  le  cosmopolitisme 
litieraire,  that  it  may  be  discussed  here  only  briefly. 
M.  Texte  remarks,  "It  has  been  truly  said  that 
Clarissa  Harlowe  is  to  La  Nouvelle  Heloise  what 
Rousseau's  novel  is  to  Werther:  the  three  works 
are  inseparably  connected,  because  the  bond  be- 
tween them  is  one  of  heredity."  In  1742,  Des- 
fontaines  greeted  Pamela  with  dehght,  pointed  out 
its  striking  originality  in  subject  and  treatment, 
and  declared  that  it  would  be  a  good  pattern  for 
French  writers.  This  started  a  fierce  controversy, 
and  M.  Texte  suggests  that  it  was  out  of  resentment 
that  Desfontaines  translated  Joseph  Andrews. 
But  the  French  public  would  not  Hsten  to  Fielding, 
insisting  that  he  was  unworthy  to  be  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath  with  his  intended  victim. 
On  26  July  1742,  Crebillon  wrote  to  Chesterfield, 

125 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

"But  for  Pamela,  we  should  not  know  here  what 
to  read  or  to  say."  Sequels,  imitations,  dramatisa- 
tions, and  parodies  appeared  in  French ;  Richard- 
son's waiting  maid  was  the  reigning  sensation,  and 
continued  to  enjoy  an  extraordinary  vogue  until 
the  appearance  of  Prevost's  translation  of  Clarissa 
—  curious,  indeed,  the  relations  between  Richard- 
son and  the  author]  of  Manon  Lescaut  1  Clarissa 
aroused  the  most  intense  interest,  and  it  was  every- 
where mightily  cried  up.  Prevost's  translations 
were  not  either  accurate  or  fully  complete,  for  the 
author  of  Manon  Lescaut  found  the  realism  of 
Richardson  too  uncompromising ;  he  omitted  some 
of  the  most  powerful  passages  in  Clarissa,  and 
softened  many  others.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this 
treatment,  he  regarded  his  author  with  reveren- 
tial admiration. 

The  death  of  Richardson  was  the  signal  for  the 
wildest  eulogies  from  French  critics.  As  M. 
Texte  says,  "Popular  enthusiasm  rose  to  frenzy." 
In  twenty-four  hours  Diderot  composed  his  famous 
eulogy,  which,  among  utterances  that  can  only  be 
called  rhapsodical,  contained  much  valuable  criti- 
cism. As  an  example  of  his  enthusiasm,  we  may 
quote:  "O  Richardson!  Richardson!  first  of  men 
in  my  eyes,  you  shall  be  my  reading  on  all  occa- 
sions. ...  I  will  sell  my  books,  but  I  will  keep 
you :    you  shall  remain  on  the  same  shelf  with 

126 


RICHARDSON 

Moses,  Homer,  Euripides,  and  Sophocles ;  and  I 
will  read  you  by  turns."  And  as  an  example  of 
his  insight:  "You  may  think  what  you  please  of 
the  details,  but  to  me  they  will  be  interesting,  if 
they  be  natural,  if  they  display  the  passions,  if 
they  disclose  characters.  You  say  they  are 
common,  they  are  what  we  see  every  day.  You 
are  mistaken ;  they  are  what  pass  before  your  eyes 
every  day,  without  being  seen  by  you."  And,  the 
emotion  aroused  by  reading  him  is  significantly 
described  by  Diderot  exactly  as  we  have  found  it 
affected  the  Professor  Gellert.  "11  m'a  laisse  une 
melancholic,  qui  me  plait  &  qui  dure." 

While  all  the  French  people  were  still  talking 
about  Clarissa,  in  1756  Rousseau  began  the  com- 
position of  La  Nouvelle  Helotse.  Richardson's 
story  had  simply  inspired  him ;  he  said  that  no 
novel  that  had  ever  been  written  in  any  language 
was  comparable  to  Clarissa.  Everyone  noticed 
the  similarity  of  the  two  works,  and  the  source  of 
Rousseau's  book  —  which  was  also  written  in  letters 
—  was  immediately  pointed  out.  In  1761  La 
Nouvelle  Helotse  appeared  in  an  English  translation, 
and  was  read  by  Richardson  during  the  last  year 
of  his  life.  He  heartily  disapproved  of  it,  as  he 
would  of  many  other  books  that  sprang  from  the 
seed  he  had  sown,  had  he  lived  to  see  them  flourish. 
Fielding,    Sterne,    Rousseau  —  an    extraordinary 

127 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

result  of  the  printer's  didactic  efforts !  Little  did 
he  dream  that  through  the  works  of  Rousseau  the 
stream  of  his  influence  would  continue  to  widen 
and  deepen  until  it  reached  the  awful  cataract  of 
the  French  Revolution.  For  that  the  quiet,  God- 
fearing, conservative,  conventional,  law-abiding 
Richardson  was  one  of  the  men  who  helped  uncon- 
sciously but  powerfully  to  bring  about  the  greatest 
political  upheaval  of  modern  times,  is  a  fact  no 
less  extraordinary  than  true. 

Finally,  from  a  great  French  artist  in  prose  and 
verse,  Richardson's  Clarissa  received  the  highest 
of  all  compliments.  For  Alfred  de  Musset  called 
it  le  premier  roman  du  monde. 


128 


Ill 

JANE  AUSTEN 

Wednesday,  the  twelfth  of  September  1900, 
was  a  beautiful  day.  The  sun  shone  brilliantly, 
and  the  air  had  quality.  Early  in  the  morning 
we  said  farewell  to  Salisbury's  tall  and  crooked 
spire,  and  after  a  lunch  at  high  noon  we  visited  the 
splendid  old  Norman  Abbey  church  at  Romsey. 
During  the  afternoon  our  bicycles  carried  us  over 
an  excellent  road  fringed  with  beautiful  trees,  and 
at  Hursley  we  entered  the  sacred  edifice  where 
saintly  John  Keble  held  forth  the  Word  of  Life. 
We  did  homage  at  his  grave  in  the  churchyard, 
and  gazed  without  emotion  at  the  house  of  Richard 
Cromwell.  Over  the  downs  we  pedalled  merrily, 
and  late  in  the  afternoon,  under  the  level  rays  of 
the  September  sun,  we  entered  the  ancient  capital 
of  England,  the  cheerful  city  of  Winchester.  Deep 
in  the  evening  we  saw  the  massive  grey  Cathedral 
glorified  by  the  moon. 

Hampshire  rolled  into  the  sunshine  again  on 
Thursday  morning,  and  we  visited  the  great  Gothic 
church.  The  disappointment  felt  by  most  pil- 
grims at  the  rather  forbidding  exterior  gave  place 
K  129 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

to  solemn  rapture  as  we  stepped  within  the  portal. 
The  vault  of  the  immense  nave,  the  forest  of 
columns,  the  Norman  transepts,  all  seen  through 
the  dim  religious  light,  made  one  realise  that  a 
mediaeval  cathedral  is  the  symbol  of  generations 
of  human  aspiration.  It  is  a  lapidary  prayer. 
We  visited  the  tomb  of  Joseph  Warton,  who  led 
the  eighteenth-century  revolt  against  Pope  Alex- 
ander, once  thought  to  be  infallible,  we  saw  the 
grave  of  the  gentle  author  of  the  Com  pleat  Angler, 
and  then  we  paused  reverently  by  the  last  resting- 
place  of  Jane  Austen.  Hither  she  was  borne  on 
24  July  1 81 7,  followed  only  by  members  of  her 
family,  who  loved  her  for  the  purity  and  sweetness 
of  her  character. 

In  the  afternoon  we  sped  northward  to  Steven- 
ton,  the  village  made  famous  by  her  birth.  The 
town  is  so  small  and  otherwise  insignificant  as  to 
have  no  railway  station,  and  to  be  forgotten  by 
many  mapmakers.  It  is  indeed  unknown  to  most 
Hampshire  farmers,  as  we  shortly  discovered ; 
for  we  dismounted  and  mounted  our  wheels  many 
times,  with  enquiries  that  proved  fruitless.  We 
finally,  however,  reached  the  object  of  our  quest. 
A  small,  mean,  dirty  village  is  Steventon  to-day, 
graced  only  by  beautiful  hedgerows.  The  house 
where  Jane  Austen  lived  has  long  since  disap- 
peared, an  instance  —  if  any  were  needed  —  of  how 

130 


JANE  AUSTEN 

much  more  transient  are  the  houses  built  with 
hands  than  those  created  by  the  imagination. 
Part  of  the  site  is  marked  by  an  old  pump,  which 
gives  Httle  idea  of  the  well  of  inspiration  used 
by  the  noveHst.  The  present  rectory  is  on  a  knoll 
of  turf,  commanding  a  pleasant  view,  but  having 
little  interest  for  the  pilgrim ;  so  we  wended  our 
way  to  the  old  church,  where  Jane  heard  her 
father  preach  and  pray.  In  the  autumnal  twi- 
light we  pedalled  on  to  Basingstoke,  over  a  much 
better  road  than  the  Austens  saw  in  their  fre- 
quent journeys;  and  the  Feathers  being  "full 
up,"  we  slept  peacefully  under  the  aegis  of  the 
Red  Lion,  who  roared  as  gently  as  a  sucking 
dove. 

Jane  Austen  was  born  at  Steventon,  in  the 
northern  part  of  the  county  of  Hampshire,  on 
i6  December  1775.  Her  father  was  the  Rev. 
George  Austen,  an  Oxford  man,  who  had  re- 
ceived the  neighbouring  rectories  of  Deane  and 
Steventon  in  1764,  the  year  of  his  marriage  to 
Cassandra  Leigh.  Instead  of  bringing  woe  and 
death  in  her  train,  Cassandra  brought  the  parson 
conjugal  bliss  and  seven  children,  to  one  of  whom 
she  gave  her  own  name,  in  defiance  of  augury. 
It  is  not  true,  as  stated  in  the  Dictionary  oj 
National  Biography,  that  Jane  was  ''the  youngest 
of  seven  children,"  and  the  Dictionary's  further 

131 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

statement,  that  her  brother  Charles  died  in  1832, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-three,  would  place  his  birth 
before  the  marriage  of  his  parents.  The  Dic- 
tionary article  on  Jane  Austen  is  brief,  unsym- 
pathetic, and  inaccurate.  The  oldest  son,  James, 
was  born  at  Deane  in  1765.  At  Oxford  he  had  a 
high  reputation  among  the  undergraduates  for  his 
skill  in  composition  and  his  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  It  is  to  this  young  Oxonian  that 
the  world  owes  a  debt  of  gratitude ;  for  on  his 
return  to  the  rectory,  his  mind  fuirof  his  favourite 
books,  he  took  charge  of  the  reading  of  his  two 
younger  sisters,  and  guided  them  at  their  most 
docile  age  into  the  green  pastures  of  literature. 
Edward  was  the  second  son ;  he  was  born  at 
Deane  in  1768,  but  at  an  early  age  left  the  family 
circle,  being  adopted  by  his  cousin,  Thomas  Knight, 
who  owned  estates  at  Godmersham  Park,  Kent, 
and  Chawton  in  Hampshire.  He  came  into  the 
inheritance  in  1794,  and  in  1812  changed  his 
name  to  Knight.  This  adoption  was  a  fortunate 
thing  not  only  for  him,  but  for  the  whole  family; 
for  after  some  years  he  was  able  to  give  his  widowed 
mother  and  sisters  a  home,  and  was  especially 
kind  and  helpful  to  Jane.  The  next  arrival  in  the 
family  was  the  third  son,  Henry  Thomas,  born  in 
Deane  in  1771.  He  Hved  a  life  of  active  useless- 
ness.     Brilliant,  witty,  and  charming  in  conversa- 

132 


JANE  AUSTEN 

tion,  eternally  hopeful  and  enthusiastic,  he  went 
through  life  with  innocent  gaiety,  and  with  a  con- 
stantly increasing  sense  toward  the  end  that  he 
might  have  reached  distinction  had  he  concen- 
trated his  energies.  We  should  not  forget,  however, 
that  he  did  help  Jane  in  some  details  of  her  busi- 
ness dealings  with  her  publishers,  and  that  she 
highly  valued  his  criticisms.     He  died  in  1850. 

The  dearest  member  of  the  family  to  Jane,  and 
the  most  intimate  friend  she  had  in  the  world, 
was  her  sister  Cassandra,  three  years  her  senior. 
Two  girls  of  about  the  same  age  against  five  brothers 
would  naturally  form  an  offensive  and  defensive 
alliance ;  and  between  these  two  sisters  as  they 
grew  from  childhood  into  maturity  ripened  a  mar- 
vellous friendship,  where  each  took  delight  in  the 
other's  gifts  and  pleasures.  They  were  all  in  all 
to  each  other ;  they  were  never  married,  and  they 
remained  in  the  diminishing  family  circle  while 
the  brothers  struck  out  into  the  world.  It  was  to 
Cassandra  that  Jane  wrote  nearly  all  of  the  letters 
that  have  come  down  to  us ;  and  the  very  absence 
of  literary  style  in  these  documents  and  their 
meagreness  of  information  about  Jane's  literary 
career  is  a  substantial  proof  of  the  intimacy  of 
the  two  women.  It  was  in  Cassandra's  arms  that 
Jane  died ;  and  how  terribly  the  survivor  suffered 
we  shall  never  know,  for  she  thought  it  to  be  her 

133 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

duty  to  control  the  outward  expression  of  her 
grief.  She  was  indeed  a  woman  of  extraordinary 
independence  and  self-reliance,  who  loved  her 
younger  and  more  impulsive  sister  with  an  afiFec- 
tion  unknown  to  many  more  demonstrative  indi- 
viduals.    She  died  in  1845. 

The  fifth  child  was  Francis,  born  in  1773.  In 
striking  contrast  to  the  serene  and  tranquil  life 
of  his  sisters,  this  resolute  and  ambitious  man 
lived  in  the  very  whirlwind  of  action.  His  career 
affords  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  that 
those  who  seek  death  do  not  find  it ;  for  he  served 
in  the  navy  during  England's  most  stirring  period 
of  warfare  on  the  sea.  In  the  midst  of  death  he 
found  life,  for  while  the  other  members  of  the 
family,  all  but  one  of  whom  dwelt  in  peace  and 
apparent  security,  passed  away,  he  rose  steadily 
in  the  service,  and  lived  to  be  ninety-two  years  old. 
He  was  a  religious  man,  and  was  known  as  "the 
ofificer  who  kneeled  at  church."  Most  remarkable 
of  all  for  a  sailor,  no  one  ever  heard  him  swear. 
His  long  years  of  service  in  the  navy  were  crowned 
with  success,  for  he  rose  to  the  highest  rank  ob- 
tainable, being  at  the  time  of  his  death  the  Senior 
Admiral  of  the  Fleet. 

The  youngest  child  in  the  family  was  Charles, 
who  was  born  in  1778.  He  also  entered  the 
navy,  and  frequently  smelt  gunpowder.     He  sur- 

134 


JANE  AUSTEN 

vived  all  the  perils  of  action,  however,  and  rose 
to  be  an  Admiral.  While  on  a  steam-sloop  in 
Eastern  waters,  he  died  of  cholera  in  1852.  He 
was  beloved  by  both  officers  and  sailors,  one  of 
whom  said,  "I  know  that  I  cried  bitterly  when 
I  found  he  was  dead." 

Readers  of  her  novels  have  often  wondered 
why  Jane  Austen,  who  lived  in  wars  and  rumours 
of  wars,  showed  apparently  so  little  interest  in  the 
momentous  events  of  her  time.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  she  took  her  part  in  those  world-combats 
vicariously,  and  the  welfare  of  her  brothers  was 
more  interesting  to  her  than  the  fate  of  Napoleon. 
The  sea-faring  men  in  her  books  supply  the  evi- 
dence of  her  knowledge  of  the  navy,  though,  true 
to  her  primal  principle  of  art,  she  did  not  let  them 
escape  beyond  the  boundaries  of  her  personal 
experience. 

Jane  Austen  has  been  regarded  by  many  as  a 
prim,  prudish  old  maid,  and  yet  she  loved  to  drink 
wine  and  play  cards,  she  loved  to  dance,  and  she 
delighted  in  the  theatre.  The  very  smallness  of 
Steventon  brought  its  inhabitants  together  in  so- 
cial intercourse ;  and  in  a  house  where  a  genial 
father  and  mother  presided  over  seven  children, 
and  where  there  were  often  dances  and  social 
gatherings  several  times  a  week,  we  need  not 
waste  any  pity  on  her  desolate  and  lonely  youth. 

135 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

She  was  so  fond  of  society  that  had  she  lived  in 
a  large  city,  among  brilliant  men  and  women, 
she  might  never  have  written  a  book.  In  her  four 
residences,  Steventon,  Bath,  Southampton,  and 
Chawton,  she  saw  many  phases  of  humanity; 
and  had  good  opportunities  for  observation,  since 
the  main  traits  in  human  nature  are  always  the 
same.  We  need  not  regret,  therefore,  that  the 
geographical  limits  of  her  bodily  life  were  so  cir- 
cumscribed. She  could  have  lived  in  a  nutshell, 
and  counted  herself  a  monarch  of  infinite  space,  for 
she  had  no  bad  dreams  like  those  of  Hamlet. 
It  has  been  well  said  that  the  happiest  person  is 
he  who  thinks  the  most  interesting  thoughts ; 
and  keen  was  the  enjoyment  that  this  quiet  woman 
got  out  of  life. 

As  a  child  she  began  to  scribble,  regretting  in 
later  life  that  she  had  not  read  more  and  written 
less.  She  composed  "The  Mystery:  an  Unfin- 
ished Comedy,"  and  dedicated  it  to  her  father 
with  mock  gravity.  Even  then  she  loved  bur- 
lesque, and  she  delighted  in  laughing  at  the  two 
great  schools  in  literature  so  prominent  in  her 
childhood,  the  school  of  impossible  romance  and 
the  school  of  absurd  sentimentality.  She  saw 
clearly  the  ridiculous  side  of  the  sentimental 
books  that  followed  in  the  wake  of  Richardson 
and  Sterne,  and  the  absurdity  of  the  Gothic  ro- 

136 


JANE  AUSTEN 

mances  that  pursued  hard  upon  the  Castle  of 
Otranto.  She  did  not  know  then  that  she  was  to 
write  an  immortal  burlesque,  wherein  both  these 
tendencies  were  treated  with  genial  contempt; 
but  her  attitude  of  mind  did  not  change  as  she 
grew  older,  and  before  she  was  twenty-one,  she 
had  begun  the  composition  of  one  of  the  greatest 
novels  in  all  literature,  Pride  and  Prejudice.  She 
was  surely  in  the  vein ;  for  upon  the  completion 
of  this  work,  she  immediately  began  Sense  and 
Sensibility,  and  during  her  residence  in  Steven- 
ton  she  also  composed  Northanger  Abbey.  These 
three  books  constitute  sufficient  proof  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  genius  finds  its  own  en\'ironment. 

Jane  Austen  had  visited  Bath  before  the  com- 
position of  the  last-named  work,  and  thither  the 
whole  family  moved  in  the  spring  of  1801,  begin- 
ning the  century  under  as  different  surround- 
ings from  the  old  home  as  can  well  be  imagined. 
Steventon  was  a  small  village,  Bath  a  city  alive 
with  social  excitement.  Here  she  was  too  much 
occupied  in  living  to  do  much  writing,  though  it 
is  possible  that  she  began  her  unfinished  story, 
The  Watsons,  during  this  period.  A  visit  to 
Lyme  in  1804  gave  her  unconsciously  the  mate- 
rial which  she  afterwards  alchemised  into  the 
pure  gold  of  Persuasion.  Her  father  died  in 
February  1805,  at  Bath,  and  the  fortunes  of  the 
137 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

family  underwent  a  change  for  the  worse.  They 
were,  however,  by  no  means  destitute,  nor  did 
they  ever  know  the  pangs  of  poverty.  Before 
the  end  of  this  year  they  moved  to  Southampton, 
and  lived  in  a  comfortable  old  house  in  Castle 
Square.     Here  they  stayed  four  years. 

As  her  nephew  says,  neither  Bath  nor  South- 
ampton can  be  regarded  as  homes  of  Jane  Aus- 
ten ;  "  she  was  only  a  sojourner  in  a  strange 
land."  In  1809,  however,  they  had  the  pleasure 
of  once  more  finding  an  abiding-place.  As  has 
been  said,  Edward  Austen,  who  became  Edward 
Knight,  inherited  two  residences,  one  at  God- 
mersham  Park,  in  Kent,  the  other  at  Chawton  in 
Hampshire.  He  now  gave  his  mother  the  choice 
of  two  dwellings,  each  house  being  near  his  prop- 
erty in  these  two  respective  counties.  Perhaps 
owing  to  her  long  residence  in  Hampshire,  she 
chose  the  cottage  at  Chawton,  which  stood  in  the 
village  "about  a  mile  from  Alton,  on  the  right- 
hand  side,  just  where  the  road  to  Winchester 
branches  off  from  that  to  Gosport.  It  was  so 
close  to  the  road  that  the  front  door  opened  upon 
it ;  while  a  very  narrow  enclosure,  paled  in  on  each 
side,  protected  the  building  from  danger  of  col- 
lision with  any  runaway  vehicle.  ...  It  had 
been  originally  built  for  an  inn,  for  which  purpose 
it  was  certainly  well  situated.  .  .   .     Trees  were 

138 


JANE  AUSTEN 

planted  each  side  to  form  a  shrubbery  walk, 
carried  round  the  enclosure,  which  gave  a  suflS- 
cient  space  for  ladies'  exercise.  There  was  a 
pleasant  irregular  mixture  of  hedgerow  and  gravel 
walk  and  orchard,  and  long  grass  for  mowing, 
arising  from  two  or  three  little  enclosures  hav- 
ing been  thrown  together.  The  house  itself 
was  quite  as  good  as  the  generality  of  parsonage 
houses  then  were,  and  much  in  the  same  style; 
and  was  capable  of  receiving  other  members 
of  the  family  as  frequent  visitors.  It  was  suffi- 
ciently well  furnished ;  everything  inside  and 
out  was  kept  in  good  repair,  and  it  was  altogether 
a  comfortable  and  ladylike  estabhshment,  though 
the  means  which  supported  it  were  not  large." 

In  this  unpretentious  cottage,  with  no  separate 
study,  but  writing  in  the  family  sitting-room 
amidst  the  general  conversation,  Jane  Austen 
not  only  arranged  for  the  press  her  three  earlier 
novels,  but  composed  three  masterpieces,  Mans- 
field Park,  Emma,  and  Persuasion.  She  had 
the  pleasant  excitement  of  the  publication  of 
her  books,  of  reading  them  aloud  to  the  family 
in  manuscript,  of  receiving  and  examining  bundles 
of  proof,  of  actually  handling  money  earned  by 
her  pen,  and  of  observing  the  faint  dawn  of  her 
reputation.  This  made  her  peaceful  environment 
more  than  interesting,  and  we  may  be  sure  that 

139 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

the  days  passed  swiftly.  Up  to  this  time  her  sole 
reward  for  her  labour  had  been  the  glow  of  compo- 
sition and  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  she  had 
done  good  work;  the  harvest  was  late,  but  she 
now  began  to  reap  it.  Unfortunately  the  time 
was  short.  It  is  one  of  the  apparent  perversities 
of  the  stupidity  of  Destiny,  that  the  only  member 
of  the  family  who  possessed  genius  should  have 
died  so  young.  Jane  Austen  is  the  kind  of  person 
who  ought  to  live  forever. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1816  her  health  be- 
gan to  fail.  This  is  said  to  have  been  caused  by 
worry  over  some  family  misfortunes;  but  may  it 
not  have  been  owing  to  the  consuming  flame  of 
genius  ?  It  is  impossible  that  she  could  have  writ- 
ten such  masterpieces  without  feeling  that  virtue 
had  gone  out  of  her.  The  joy  of  artistic  creation 
is  probably  one  of  the  greatest  joys  known  to  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  men ;  but  the  bodily  frame 
pays  dearly  for  it,  and  the  toil  of  making  a  good 
book  surpasses  in  intensity  of  labour  almost  all 
other  forms  of  human  exertion.  Whatever 
was  the  cause,  the  fact  was  that  her  life  began 
to  decay  at  precisely  the  time  when  her  mind 
began  to  reach  its  greatest  brilliancy.  Her  cheer- 
ful letters  showed  faint  signs  of  an  impending 
disaster.  She  wrote  to  her  brother  Charles,  "I 
live  upstairs  for  the  present,  and  am  coddled.     I 

140 


JANE  AUSTEN 

am  the  only  one  of  the  party  who  has  been  so 
silly,  but  a  weak  body  must  excuse  weak  nerves." 
The  malady  began  to  gain  ground,  and  she  had  to 
walk  shorter  distances,  and  then  cease  walking 
altogether.  Soon  she  was  obliged  to  lie  down  a 
good  part  of  the  day,  when  she  wished  ardently  to 
be  at  work ;  and  there  being  only  one  sofa  in  the 
general  sitting-room  she  refused  to  use  it  except 
in  the  absence  of  her  mother,  who  had  passed 
seventy  years.  She  tried  to  persuade  her  friends 
that  she  was  getting  well.  In  January  1817,  she 
wrote,  "I  have  certainly  gained  strength  through 
the  winter,  and  am  not  far  from  being  well ;  and 
I  think  I  understand  my  own  case  now  so  much 
better  than  I  did,  as  to  be  able  by  care  to  keep  ofif 
any  serious  return  of  illness."  It  was  not  to  be. 
The  last  date  found  on  her  manuscript  is  the 
seventeenth  of  March  1817.  Her  nephew  says, 
"And  here  I  cannot  do  better  than  quote  the  words 
of  the  niece  to  whose  private  records  of  her  aunt's 
life  and  character  I  have  been  so  often  indebted : 
'I  do  not  know  how  early  the  alarming  symptoms 
of  her  malady  came  on.  It  was  in  the  following 
March  that  I  had  the  first  idea  of  her  being  se- 
riously ill.  It  had  been  settled  that  about  the 
end  of  that  month  or  the  beginning  of  April  I 
should  spend  a  few  days  at  Chawton,  in  the  absence 
of  my  father  and  mother,  who  were  just  then  en- 

141 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

gaged  with  Mrs.  Leigh  Perrot  in  arranging  her 
late  husband's  affairs ;  but  Aunt  Jane  became  too 
ill  to  have  me  in  the  house,  and  so  I  went  instead 
to  my  sister  Mrs.  Lefroy  at  Wyards'.  The  next 
day  we  walked  over  to  Chawton  to  make  inquiries 
after  our  aunt.  She  was  then  keeping  her  room, 
but  said  she  would  see  us,  and  we  went  up  to  her. 
She  was  in  her  dressing-gown,  and  was  sitting 
quite  like  an  invalid  in  an  arm-chair,  but  she  got 
up  and  kindly  greeted  us,  and  then,  pointing 
to  seats  which  had  been  arranged  for  us  by  the 
fire,  she  said,  "There  is  a  chair  for  the  married 
lady,  and  a  little  stool  for  you,  Caroline." 
It  is  strange,  but  those  trifling  words  were 
the  last  of  hers  that  I  can  remember,  for  I  re- 
tain no  recollection  of  what  was  said  by  anyone 
in  the  conversation  that  ensued.  I  was  struck  by 
the  alteration  in  herself.  She  was  very  pale,  her 
voice  was  weak  and  low,  and  there  was  about  her 
a  general  appearance  of  debility  and  suffering ; 
but  I  have  been  told  that  she  never  had  much 
acute  pain.  She  was  not  equal  to  the  exertion  of 
talking  to  us,  and  our  visit  to  the  sick-room  was  a 
very  short  one,  Aunt  Cassandra  soon  taking  us 
away.  I  do  not  suppose  we  stayed  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  and  I  never  saw  Aunt  Jane  again.'" 

In  the  month  of  May  1817,  the  family  decided 
that  she  must  be  taken  to  Winchester,  in  order  to 

142 


JANE  AUSTEN 

get  the  benefit  of  daily  skilled  medical  advice. 
Thither  she  went  with  the  faithful  Cassandra, 
and  the  two  sisters  took  lodgings  in  a  pleasant 
house  on  College  Street,  near  the  great  cathedral. 
From  these  rooms  she  wrote  in  a  trembling  and 
uncertain  hand  the  following  letter,  in  which  she 
tried  to  give  a  playful  tone  to  her  illness.  The 
letter  bears  date  of  the  27  May. 

"There  is  no  better  way,  my  dearest  E.,  of 
thanking  you  for  your  affectionate  concern  for 
me  during  my  illness  than  by  telling  you  myself, 
as  soon  as  possible,  that  I  continue  to  get  better. 
I  will  not  boast  of  my  handwriting ;  neither  that 
nor  my  face  have  yet  recovered  their  proper 
beauty,  but  in  other  respects  I  gain  strength  very 
fast.  I  am  now  out  of  bed  from  nine  in  the 
morning  to  ten  at  night :  upon  the  sofa  it  is  true, 
but  I  eat  my  meals  with  Aunt  Cassandra  in  a 
rational  way,  and  can  employ  myself,  and  walk 
from  one  room  to  another.  Mr.  Lyford  says  he 
will  cure  me,  and  if  he  fails,  I  shall  draw  up  a 
memorial  and  lay  it  before  the  Dean  and  Chapter, 
and  have  no  doubt  of  redress  from  that  pious, 
learned,  and  disinterested  body.  Our  lodgings 
are  very  comfortable.  We  have  a  neat  little 
drawing-room  with  a  bow  window  overlooking 
Dr.  Gabell's  garden.  Thanks  to  the  kindness 
of  your  father  and  mother  in  sending  me  their 

143 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

carriage,  my  journey  hither  on  Saturday  was 
performed  with  very  Httle  fatigue,  and  had  it 
been  a  fine  day,  I  think  I  should  have  felt  none ; 
but  it  distressed  me  to  see  Uncle  Henry  and  Wm. 
Knight,  who  kindly  attended  us  on  horseback, 
riding  in  the  rain  almost  the  whole  way.  We  ex- 
pect a  visit  from  them  to-morrow,  and  hope  they 
will  stay  the  night;  and  on  Thursday,  which  is 
a  confirmation  and  a  holiday,  we  are  to  get  Charles 
out  to  breakfast.  We  have  had  but  one  visit 
from  him,  poor  fellow,  as  he  is  in  sick-room,  but 
he  hopes  to  be  out  to-night.  We  see  Mrs.  Heath- 
cote  every  day,  and  William  is  to  call  upon  us  soon. 
God  bless  you,  my  dear  E.  If  ever  you  are  ill, 
may  you  be  as  tenderly  nursed  as  I  have  been. 
May  the  same  blessed  alleviations  of  anxious, 
sympathising  friends  be  yours :  and  may  you 
possess,  as  I  dare  say  you  will,  the  greatest  bless- 
ing of  all  in  the  consciousness  of  not  being  unwor- 
thy of  their  love.     I  could  not  feel  this, 

"Your  very  affecte  Aunt, 
"J.  A." 

She  added  later:  "I  will  only  say  further 
that  my  dearest  sister,  my  tender,  watchful,  in- 
defatigable nurse,  has  not  been  made  ill  by  her 
exertions.  As  to  what  I  owe  her,  and  the  anxious 
affection  of  all  my  beloved  family  on  this  occa- 

144 


JANE  AUSTEN 

sion,  I  can  only  cry  over  it,  and  pray  God  to 
bless  them  more  and  more." 

Thus,  with  only  temporary  alleviations,  she 
grew  gradually  weaker,  and  died  on  the  morn- 
ing of  1 8  July  1817.  Shortly  before  she  be- 
came unconscious,  she  was  asked  if  there  were 
anything  she  wished.  She  replied,  "Nothing 
but  death." 

What  are  the  qualities  that  place  the  novels  of 
Jane  Austen  so  far  above  those  of  all  her  contem- 
poraries except  Scott,  and  that  class  her  so  distinctly 
above  a  writer  like  Charlotte  Bronte? 

That  much-abused  phrase,  "Art  for  art's  sake," 
so  often  heard  in  the  mouths  of  hypocritical 
and  unclean  authors,  is  strictly  applicable  to 
the  aims  and  ideals  of  Jane  Austen.  She  is  one 
of  the  supreme  literary  artists  of  the  world,  like 
the  Russian  Turgenev.  She  made  no  compro- 
mises, and  never  wrote  a  line  to  please  anybody 
but  herself.  That  is  precisely  why  she  pleases  all 
readers  of  taste  and  intelligence.  Coming  before 
the  days  when  the  advertising  of  new  novels  had 
become  as  purely  a  commercial  enterprise  as  the 
exploitation  of  breakfast  foods,  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  ways  of  publishers,  nor  did  she  under- 
stand how  it  was  possible  for  an  author  to  write 
for  the  market.  Far  from  the  madding  crowd 
I.  145 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

she  wrought  her  books  in  the  peaceful  tranquil- 
lity of  an  affectionate  family  circle,  and  she  re- 
fused to  search  for  material  either  in  huge  libraries 
or  in  remote  corners  of  the  earth.  Many  novelists 
of  to-day  work  up  a  new  story  exactly  as  a  haggard 
student  prepares  a  doctor's  thesis,  by  collecting  an 
immense  amount  of  historical  fact.  Jane  Austen 
never  worked  up  material,  for  she  found  it  all  on 
the  sensitive  plates  of  her  own  delicate  mind. 
There  are  those  who  think  the  flawless  perfection 
of  her  books  was  a  kind  of  accident;  that  she 
wrote  them  without  in  the  least  realising  the  mag- 
nitude of  her  success.  That  she  did  not  anticipate 
the  prodigious  fame  that  her  novels  have  won  in 
the  twentieth  century  is  probably  true ;  but  that  a 
woman  of  so  consummate  genius  and  good  sense 
did  not  know  that  she  had  done  truly  great  work 
is  simply  impossible.  She  knew  exactly  what  she 
was  about;  she  understood  her  powers  and  in 
exactly  what  field  of  art  they  could  find  full  play. 
To  a  man  high  in  station  who  suggested  that  she 
portray  "the  habits  of  life,  and  character,  and 
enthusiasm  of  a  clergyman  who  should  pass  his 
time  between  the  metropolis  and  the  country," 
she  replied,  "I  am  quite  honoured  by  your  think- 
ing me  capable  of  drawing  such  a  clergyman  as 
you  gave  the  sketch  of  in  your  note  of  Nov.  i6th. 
But  I  assure  you  I  am  not.     The  comic  part  of 

146 


JANE   AUSTEN 

the  character  I  might  be  equal  to,  but  not  the 
good,  the  enthusiastic,  the  literary.  Such  a  man's 
conversation  must  at  times  be  on  subjects  of 
science,  and  philosophy,  of  which  I  know  nothing ; 
or  at  least  be  occasionally  abundant  in  quotations 
and  allusions  which  a  woman  who,  like  me,  knows 
only  her  own  mother  tongue,  and  has  read  little 
in  that,  would  be  totally  without  the  power  of 
giving.  A  classical  education,  or  at  any  rate  a 
very  extensive  acquaintance  with  English  liter- 
ature, ancient  and  modern,  appears  to  me  quite 
indispensable  for  the  person  who  would  do  any 
justice  to  your  clergyman ;  and  I  think  I  may 
boast  myself  to  be,  with  all  possible  vanity,  the 
most  unlearned  and  uninformed  female  who  ever 
dared  to  be  an  authoress."  Not  discouraged  by 
this,  as  he  should  have  been,  her  fatuous  corre- 
spondent proposed  that  she  write  "an  historical 
romance  illustrative  of  the  august  House  of  Co- 
bourg"  —  (what  a  pity  that  Anthony  Hope  was 
unborn !)  to  which  happy  suggestion  he  received 
the  following  reply  from  the  author  of  Northanger 
Abbey,  dated  i  April  1816 : 

"You  are  very  kind  in  your  hints  as  to  the  sort 
of  composition  which  might  recommend  me  at 
present,  and  I  am  fully  sensible  that  an  historical 
romance,  founded  on  the  House  of  Saxe  Co- 
bourg,  might  be  much  more  to  the  purpose  of 

147 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

profit  or  popularity  than  such  pictures  of  domes- 
tic Hfe  in  country  villages  as  I  deal  in.  But  I 
could  no  more  write  a  romance  than  an  epic  poem. 
I  could  not  sit  seriously  down  to  write  a  serious 
romance  under  any  other  motive  than  to  save  my 
life;  and  if  it  were  indispensable  for  me  to  keep 
it  up  and  never  relax  into  laughing  at  myself  or  at 
other  people,  I  am  sure  I  should  be  hung  before  I 
had  finished  the  first  chapter.  No,  I  must  keep 
to  my  own  style  and  go  on  in  my  own  way ;  and 
though  I  may  never  succeed  again  in  that,  I  am 
convinced  that  I  should  totally  fail  in  any  other." 

In  another  connection  she  described  her  work 
as  follows:  ''The  little  bit  (two  inches  wide)  of 
ivory  on  which  I  work  with  so  fine  a  brush  as  pro- 
duces little  effect  after  much  labour."  The  very 
last  word  to  describe  the  perfection  of  her  art 
would  be  the  word  accident. 

Not  only  did  she  write  without  any  pretence 
to  knowledge  and  experience  unpossessed,  but  she 
worked  with  faithful  devotion  through  years  of 
obscurity.  She  began  the  composition  of  her 
famous  novels  in  1796 ;  it  was  not  until  181 1  that 
any  of  her  work  found  a  publisher.  If  this  be 
not  "art  for  art's  sake,"  one  must  despair  of 
finding  it  anywhere. 

Not  only  is  the  structure  of  her  stories  superb 
in  outline,  not  only  is  her  style  so  perfect  that  it 

148 


JANE  AUSTEN 

seems  to  the  unskilful  no  style  at  all,  but  her 
characters  have  an  amazing  vitality.  Not  a  sin- 
gle one  of  them  passes  through  an  extraordinary 
adventure ;  hence  we  are  interested  in  them  not 
for  what  they  do  and  suffer,  but  wholly  for  what 
they  are.  No  persons  in  the  whole  realm  of  fic- 
tion are  more  alive  than  Elizabeth  Bennet,  or 
the  adorable  heroine  of  Persuasion.  To  read 
Jane  Austen's  books  is  to  add  to  our  circle  of 
acquaintances  men  and  women  whom  it  is  most 
desirable  to  know,  and  whose  presence  in  our 
mental  world  adds  to  the  pleasure  of  life.  They 
are  so  real  that  the  mere  mention  of  their  names 
brings  a  clear  image  of  their  faces  before  our  con- 
sciousness, along  with  a  glow  of  reminiscent  delight. 
Her  books  are  truly  great,  then,  because  they 
have  in  them  what  Mrs.  Browning  called  the 
"principle  of  life."  Their  apparently  simple 
and  transparently  clear  style  contains  treasures 
inexhaustible ;  for  no  one  reads  any  of  her  stories 
only  once.  With  every  fresh  reading  comes  the 
old  pleasure,  heightened  in  intensity ;  to  read  her 
novels  is  simply  to  live,  to  live  in  a  world  of  stead- 
ily increasing  interest  and  charm.  It  would  be 
possible  to  give  in  detail  a  critical  estimation  of 
the  value  of  her  books;  to  dwell  on  the  elements 
in  her  English  style,  to  examine  minutely  the  con- 
struction of  her  plots,  and  to  analyse  microscop- 

149 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

ically  her  dramatis  personm.  But  it  is  needless ;  the 
reason  why  Jane  Austen  has  outUved  thousands  of 
novelists  who  have  been  greeted  with  wild  acclaim, 
is  simply  because  she  succeeded  in  producing  to  a 
marvellous  degree  the  illusion  that  is  the  essence 
of  great  Art,  the  pleasing  illusion  that  we  are  gaz- 
ing not  on  the  image,  but  on  the  reality. 

Her  fame  was  slow  in  growth,  but  no  slower 
than  might  have  been  expected,  and  we  should 
not  blame  previous  generations  for  not  seeing 
instantly  what  we  have  the  advantage  of  seeing 
with  a  proper  background.  She  Hved  only  six 
years  after  the  publication  of  her  first  book ;  and 
during  that  brief  time  she  enjoyed  fully  as  much 
reputation  as  could  reasonably  have  been  antici- 
pated. Some  of  her  novels  went  almost  immedi- 
ately into  second  editions ;  and  her  pleasure  at 
praise  from  good  sources  was  like  all  her  emo- 
tions, genuine,  frank,  and  unashamed.  She  was 
glad  to  have  her  books  widely  read  and  appre- 
ciated, as  any  sensible  person  would  be ;  and  her 
delight  in  receiving  a  sum  of  money  from  the 
publisher  —  the  tangible  mark  of  success  —  was 
charming  in  its  unaffected  demonstration.  Those 
worthy  writers  who  receive  a  semi-annual  copy- 
right statement  of  two  dollars  and  seventy-five 
cents  for  their  learned  productions  can  perhaps 
understand  her  enthusiasm. 
150 


JANE  AUSTEN 

She  has  never  lacked  discriminating  admirers. 
The  Quarterly  Review  for  October  1815,  con- 
tained an  article  on  Emma,  from  the  pen  of  Walter 
Scott;  Northanger  Abbey  and  Persuasion  were 
reviewed  in  the  same  periodical  for  January  1821, 
by  Archbishop  Whately.  The  latter  writer  com- 
pared her  to  Shakespeare  —  we  cannot  ask  more 
than  that.  Walter  Scott  said  in  his  diary,  14 
March  1826:  "Read  again,  for  the  third  time  at 
least,  Miss  Austen's  finely  written  novel  of  Pride 
and  Prejudice.  That  young  lady  had  a  talent  for 
describing  the  involvements  and  feelings  and  char- 
acters of  ordinary  life,  which  is  to  me  the  most 
wonderful  I  ever  met  with.  The  big  Bow-Wow 
strain  I  can  do  myself  like  any  now  going ;  but  the 
exquisite  touch  which  renders  ordinary  common- 
place things  and  characters  interesting  from  the 
truth  of  the  description  and  the  sentiment  is  de- 
nied to  me.  What  a  pity  such  a  gifted  creature 
died  so  early!"  Trevelyan,  in  his  Lije  of  Ma- 
caulay,  says,  "But,  amidst  the  infinite  variety  of 
lighter  literature  with  which  he  beguiled  his  leisure, 
Pride  and  Prejudice,  and  the  five  sister  novels, 
remained  without  a  rival  in  his  affections.  He 
never  for  a  moment  wavered  in  his  allegiance  to 
Miss  Austen.  In  1858  he  notes  in  his  journal : 
*If  I  could  get  materials,  I  really  would  write  a 
short  life  of  that  wonderful  woman,  and  raise  a  little 

151 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

money  to  put  up  a  monument  to  her  in  Winchester 
Cathedral.'"  After  the  publication  of  the  Memoir 
by  her  nephew  in  1870,  which  came  at  the  psycho- 
logical moment,  the  books  and  articles  on  Jane 
Austen  began  to  bloom  in  every  direction.  About 
1890,  what  was  called  a  "revival"  took  place; 
it  was  really  nothing  but  the  cumulative  growth  of 
her  fame.  Many  new  editions  appeared ;  and  an 
instance  of  how  she  was  regarded  as  a  master  of 
style  may  be  seen  in  the  fact  that  for  some  years 
every  Harvard  Freshman  was  required  to  read  one 
of  her  books  for  rhetorical  purposes.  She  has  had 
sufficient  vitality  to  survive  even  such  treatment. 

Sense  and  Sensibility  was  the  first  of  the  novels 
to  be  honoured  by  publication.  It  appeared  in 
181 1.  It  may  be  considered  as  her  first  work, 
for  she  had  written  a  draft  called  Elinor  and 
Marianne,  which  is  undoubtedly  the  first  form  of 
the  later  novel.  This  was  made  originally  in  Let- 
ters ;  an  interesting  fact,  because  it  affords  un- 
mistakable evidence  of  her  debt  to  Richardson. 
She  learned  more  of  the  art  of  writing  from  Rich- 
ardson than  from  any  other  master ;  it  is  said 
that  she  could  repeat  pages  of  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son  by  heart.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Richardson's 
power  of  analysis,  and  his  uncompromising  reahsm, 
made  a  profound  impression  on  her  mind.     She 

152 


JANE  AUSTEN 

had  too  keen  a  sense  of  humour  not  to  perceive  his 
errors ;  but  she  remained  all  her  life  long  an  ardent 
admirer  of  his  genius.  After  the  family  had  re- 
moved to  Chawton,  Jane  Austen  revised  and  pre- 
pared for  publication  her  earlier  works ;  and  we 
shall  never  know  how  far  the  press  copy  differed 
from  the  manuscript  she  had  written  at  Steventon 
in  her  girlhood.  Her  nephew  tells  us  that  Sense 
and  Sensibility  was  begun  at  Steventon  in  No- 
vember 1797,  immediately  after  the  comple- 
tion of  Pride  and  Prejudice;  even  thus  early 
she  had  rejected  the  epistolary  form  and  had 
composed  it  on  its  present  plan.  Then  the  work 
remained  in  manuscript  until  181 1,  as  the  rejec- 
tion of  Pride  and  Prejudice,  and  the  unwillingness 
of  the  Bath  publisher  to  risk  his  money  on  North- 
anger  Abbey  —  both  of  which  works  she  must  have 
thought  superior  to  Sense  and  Sensibility  —  did 
not  give  her  sufficient  courage  to  make  further 
overtures.  During  the  spring  of  181 1,  however, 
Jane  Austen  was  in  London,  and  with  the  assist- 
ance of  her  brother,  the  publication  of  her  first 
novel  became  an  assured  fact.  It  is,  of  course, 
possible  that  it  was  printed  at  its  author's  expense, 
though  we  do  not  know.  With  what  affection  she 
regarded  the  children  of  her  brain  may  be  seen  in 
a  letter  she  wrote  from  London  to  her  sister  Cas- 
sandra, 25  April  181 1.  "No,  indeed,  I  am  never 
153 


ESSAYS  ON  BOOKS 

too  busy  to  think  of  S.  and  S.  I  can  no  more  for- 
get it  than  a  mother  can  forget  her  sucking  child ; 
and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  enquiries. 
I  have  had  two  sheets  to  correct,  but  the  last  only 
brings  us  to  Willoughby's  first  appearance.  Mrs. 
K.  regrets  in  the  most  flattering  manner  that  she 
must  wait  till  May,  but  I  have  scarcely  a  hope  of 
its  being  out  in  June.  Henry  does  not  neglect  it ; 
he  has  hurried  the  printer,  and  says  he  will  see 
him  again  to-day.  It  will  not  stand  still  during 
his  absence,  it  will  be  sent  to  Eliza."  Then  fol- 
lows in  the  same  letter  a  passage  which  seems 
to  indicate  that  Cassandra  had  thought  the  in- 
comes of  the  characters  in  the  novel  needed  re- 
adjustment. "The  incomes  Tem.a.m  as  they  were, 
but  I  will  get  them  altered  if  I  can.  I  am  very 
much  gratified  by  Mrs.  K.'s  interest  in  it;  .  .  . 
I  think  she  will  like  my  Elinor ;  but  cannot  build 
on  anything  else."  In  this  same  anxious  period 
of  suspense,  another  novel  had  appeared,  which 
had  awakened  great  interest  and  considerable 
alarm  in  the  breast  of  the  modest  author  of  Sense 
and  Sensibility,  for  she  writes,  "We  have  tried 
to  get  'Self-Control,'  but  in  vain.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  her  estimate  is,  but  am  always  half 
afraid  of  finding  a  clever  novel  too  clever,  and 
of  finding  my  own  story  and  my  own  people  all 
forestalled." 

154 


JANE  AUSTEN 

She  was  delighted  to  receive  from  the  pub- 
lisher, Mr.  Egerton,  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  ! 
The  book,  therefore,  was  moderately  successful, 
and  its  author  had  in  her  hands  the  visible  proof 
thereof.  She  made  no  scruple  whatever  of  show- 
ing her  pleasure  at  the  receipt  of  money  earned 
in  this  manner ;  and  we  can  easily  understand  her 
feelings,  after  she  had  waited  so  many  years  to 
see  her  writings  in  print.  Writing  in  1814  about 
Mansfield  Park,  she  said,  "People  are  more  ready 
to  borrow  and  praise  than  to  buy,  which  I  cannot 
wonder  at ;  but  though  I  like  praise  as  well  as 
anybody,  I  like  what  Edward  calls  'Pewter,^  too." 

Sense  and  Sensibility  is  on  the  whole  the  poor- 
est of  Jane  Austen's  completed  novels.  The  con- 
trast between  the  two  sisters  is  of  course  interest- 
ing ;  but  they  are  less  individual  than  the  persons 
in  the  other  tales.  The  very  fact  that  Elinor 
stands  for  Sense  and  Marianne  for  Sensibility 
militates  against  the  complexity  of  their  person- 
alities ;  and  the  three  leading  men  are  less  satis- 
factory than  her  other  heroes.  The  book  is  the 
least  original  of  all  her  works ;  and  in  places 
sounds  as  if  it  were  written  under  the  shadow 
of  Richardson's  influence.  There  is  of  course 
the  same  contrast  between  first  impressions  and 
the  final  reality  that  appears  elsewhere ;  there 
is  the  same  endeavour  to  show  that  those  who 

155 


ESSAYS   ON   BOOKS 

have  the  most  ease  of  manner  are  not  neces- 
sarily of  the  most  solid  worth.  There  is  in  ad- 
dition the  touch  of  burlesque  in  the  character  of 
Marianne,  where  Jane  Austen  is  laughing  at  the 
sentimentalists ;  but  while  all  these  characteristics 
are  typical  of  her  art,  they  appear  with  less  subtlety 
than  in  the  other  novels,  indeed  one  might  say  there 
is  now  and  then  a  suggestion  of  crudity.  Edward 
Ferrars  is  spineless,  Willoughby  is  a  stage  villain, 
and  Colonel  Brandon  is  depressing.  On  the  whole, 
if  we  had  to  part  with  any  one  of  Jane  Austen's 
works,  I  imagine  that  Sense  and  Sensibility  is  the 
one  that  we  should  most  wilb'ngly  let  die. 

Pride  and  Prejudice  has  a  curious  history.  She 
began  its  composition  before  she  was  twenty-one 
years  old,  in  October  1796,  and  finished  it  in  less 
than  a  year,  during  the  month  of  August  1797. 
Her  father  —  who  unfortunately  did  not  live  to 
see  a  line  of  his  daughter's  in  print  —  was  so  cap- 
tivated by  this  story  that  he  immediately  set 
about  finding  a  publisher.  On  the  first  of  Novem- 
ber 1797,  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  Cadell: 

"Sir,  —  I  have  in  my  possession  a  manuscript  novel, 
comprising  3  vols.,  about  the  length  of  Miss  Burney's 
'Evelina.'  As  I  am  well  aware  of  what  consequence  it  is 
that  a  work  of  this  sort  sh*^  make  its  first  appearance  under 
a  respectable  name,  I  apply  to  you.  I  shall  be  much 
obliged  therefore  if  you  will  inform  me  whether  you  choose 

156 


JANE   AUSTEN 

to  be  concerned  in  it,  what  will  be  the  expense  of  publish- 
ing it  at  the  author's  risk,  and  what  you  will  venture  to 
advance  for  the  property  of  it,  if  on  perusal  it  is  approved 
of.  Should  you  give  any  encouragement,  I  will  send  you 
the  work." 

The  father's  suspense  was  of  short  duration, 
for  the  next  post  brought  a  summary  declination. 
The  publisher  did  not  even  care  to  look  at  the 
manuscript,  or  to  consider  the  question  of  print- 
ing it  at  the  author's  expense,  probably  thinking, 
as  someone  has  suggested,  that  it  was  a  feeble 
imitation  of  Miss  Burney.  Here  indeed  was  a 
case  of  pride  and  prejudice.  Paternal  pride 
and  publisher's  prejudice  kept  this  work  in  manu- 
script until  1813.  It  is  fortunate  that  the  young 
girl  knew  the  value  of  her  work,  and  preserved 
it  —  for  we  have  instances  in  literature  where 
proud  and  angry  authors  have  committed  literary 
infanticide.  In  January  1813  this  novel  —  which 
had  been  originally  christened  "First  Impres- 
sions"—  was  published  at  London  by  Egerton, 
in  three  small  volumes,  printed  in  large,  heavy 
type.  On  the  title-pages  of  Sense  and  Sensibility 
ran  the  legend,  "By  a  Lady"  —  for  Jane  Austen 
would  not  permit  her  name  to  appear  with  any 
of  her  publications;  it  was  perhaps  thought  in- 
consistent with  feminine  modesty.  The  title- 
pages  of  the  second  work  are  as  follows:   "Pride 

IS7 


ESSAYS   ON    BOOKS 

AND  Prejudice  :  A  Novel.  In  Three  Volumes. 
By  the  Author  of  'Sense  and  Sensibility.'  Lon- 
don :  Printed  for  T.  Egerton,  Military  Library, 
Whitehall,  1813."  On  29  January  she  wrote 
to  her  sister:  "I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
got  my  own  darling  child  from  London.  On 
Wednesday  I  received  one  copy  sent  down  by 
Falkener,  with  three  lines  from  Henry  to  say  that 
he  had  given  another  to  Charles,  and  sent  a  third 
by  the  coach  to  Godmersham.  .  .  .  Mrs.  B. 
dined  with  us  on  the  very  day  of  the  book's  com- 
ing; and  in  the  evening  we  fairly  set  at  it,  and 
read  half  the  first  volume  to  her,  prefacing  that 
having  intelligence  from  Henry  that  such  a  work 
would  soon  appear,  we  had  desired  him  to  send 
it  whenever  it  came  out,  and  I  believe  it  passed 
with  her  unsuspected.  She  was  amused,  poor 
soul !  That  she  could  not  help,  you  know,  with 
two  such  people  to  lead  the  way;  but  she  really 
does  seem  to  admire  Elizabeth.  I  must  confess 
that  I  think  her  as  delightful  a  creature  as  ever 
appeared  in  print ;  and  how  I  shall  be  able  to 
tolerate  those  who  do  not  like  her  at  least,  I  do 
not  know.  There  are  a  few  tj-pical  errors;  and 
a  'said  he,'  or  a  'said  she,'  would  sometimes  make 
the  dialogue  more  immediately  clear;  but  *I  do 
not  write  for  such  dull  elves'  as  have  not  a  great 
deal  of  ingenuity  themselves.  The  second  volume 
158 


JANE   AUSTEN 

is  shorter  than  I  could  wish ;  but  the  difference 
is  not  so  much  in  reality  as  in  look,  there  being  a 
larger  proportion  of  narrative  in  that  part.  I 
have  lop't  and  crop't  so  successfully,  however, 
that  I  imagine  it  must  be  rather  shorter  than 
Sense  and  Sensibility  altogether."  The  second 
volume  contained  239  pages,  while  the  first  had 
307,  and  the  last  323,  which  accounts  for  her 
fears  about  the  shortness  of  the  middle  one.  The 
fact  that  she  speaks  of  her  condensation  is  ab- 
solute proof  that  the  novel  as  it  was  published 
is  by  no  means  the  same  in  style  as  that  written 
in  her  girlhood.  It  was  undoubtedly  thoroughly 
revised.  She  wrote  shortly  after,  "  I  am  quite 
vain  enough  and  well  satisfied  enough.  The 
work  is  rather  too  fight  and  bright  and  sparkling. 
It  wants  shade ;  it  wants  to  be  stretched  out  here 
and  there  with  a  long  chapter  of  sense,  if  it  could 
be  had  ;  if  not,  of  solemn,  specious  nonsense,  about 
something  unconnected  with  the  story.  .  .  .  Her 
liking  Darcy  and  Elizabeth  is  enough.  She  might 
hate  all  the  others,  if  she  would."  This  letter  is 
interesting,  as  showing  how  perfectly  she  under- 
stood her  art,  and  how  she  refused  to  tolerate 
long  didactic  disquisitions  in  the  middle  of  a 
story.  It  is  pleasant  to  observe,  also,  that  she 
fully  realised  what  a  charming  girl  Elizabeth 
Bennet  was. 

159 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Pride  and  Prejudice  was  a  successful  novel,  for 
it  went  into  a  second  edition  the  same  year.  We 
can  fix  the  date  of  the  second  edition  with  even 
more  exactitude,  for  she  had  written  a  letter  to 
Cassandra  on  the  3d  of  November  1813  ;  then,  on 
the  6th  of  the  same  month  she  writes:  "Since  I 
wrote  last,  my  2nd  edit,  has  stared  me  in  the 
face.  Mary  tells  me  that  Eliza  means  to  buy 
it.  I  wish  she  may.  ...  I  cannot  help  hop- 
ing that  many  will  feel  themselves  obHged  to 
buy  it.  I  shall  not  mind  imagining  it  a  disa- 
greeable duty  to  them,  so  as  they  do  it.  Mary 
heard  before  she  left  home  that  it  was  very  much 
admired  at  Cheltenham."  I  have  a  beautiful  copy 
of  this  second  edition  in  three  neat  volumes  be- 
fore me  as  I  write.  One  winter  day  in  1904,  as 
I  was  prowling  around  old  book-shops  in  Munich, 
I  had  the  rare  fortune  to  find  these  three  vol- 
umes tucked  away  among  various  curiosities  in 
various  languages.  I  enquired  the  price  —  it  was 
one  mark  the  volume,  seventy-five  cents  for  the 
whole  work! 

Pride  and  Prejudice  is  Miss  Austen's  master- 
piece, and  one  of  the  few  great  novels  of  the  world. 
Its  literary  style  is  not  perhaps  equal  in  finish  to 
that  shown  in  Mansjield  Park  or  Persuasion; 
but  Elizabeth  Bennet  is  her  author's  greatest 
creation,  and  of  all  the  dehghtful  characters  in 
160 


JANE    AUSTEN 

her  works,  Elizabeth  is  the  one  we  should  most 
like  to  meet.  She  has  the  double  charm  of  girl- 
hood and  womanhood ;  and  to  know  her  is  in- 
deed a  liberal  education.  She  has  no  particular 
accomplishments,  and  is  second  to  one  of  her 
sisters  in  beauty ;  it  is  her  personality  that  counts 
with  us,  as  it  did  with  her  proud  lover.  Mr. 
Darcy,  in  spite  of  his  stiffness  and  hauteur,  is  a 
real  man,  an  enormous  improvement  on  Colonel 
Brandon.  He  exhibits  the  exact  difference  be- 
tween pride  and  conceit  that  Miss  Austen  wished 
to  portray.  The  whole  Bennet  family  are  im- 
possible to  forget,  in  their  likeness  and  in  their 
individuality;  and  there  is  so  astonishing  a  sense 
of  reality  in  the  characters  and  action  of  this 
work,  that  when  Elizabeth  hurries  into  the  break- 
fast-room of  her  critics  "with  weary  ancles,  dirty 
stockings,  and  a  face  glowing  with  warmth  of  ex- 
ercise," no  corporeal  appearance  could  be  more 
vivid  to  our  eyes,  and  we  actually  tremble  for  the 
impression  her  dirty  stockings  and  petticoat  will 
make  on  the  fastidious  folk  around  the  table. 
Jane  Austen  is  fully  as  conscientious  an  artist 
and  fully  as  courageous  and  firm  in  her  realism 
as  was  Flaubert;  and  she  is  greater  than  the 
author  of  Madame  Bovary,  for  she  arouses  even 
more  intense  interest  without  using  physical 
stimulants  to  awaken  it. 

M  i6i 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Miss  Austen's  nephew  tells  us  that  Northanger 
Abbey  was  composed  in  1798,  when  its  author 
was  only  twenty-two.  It  was  during  the  sojourn 
of  the  family  in  Bath  that  the  book  was  prepared 
for  publication.  It  seemed  at  first  to  have  a 
better  chance  to  appear  in  type  than  Pride  and 
Prejudice;  for  in  1803  it  was  actually  sold  to  a 
Bath  publishing  house,  for  a  consideration  of 
ten  pounds.  The  publisher  either  did  not  have 
time  to  examine  it,  or  after  examination  he  re- 
pented of  his  bargain ;  for  he  laid  it  away  in  a 
drawer,  where  it  remained  undisturbed  for  years. 
It  was  not  published  until  after  its  author  had 
ceased  to  live,  finally  appearing  with  Persuasion 
and  a  brief  Memoir  —  four  volumes  all  together  — 
in  18 18.  The  family  neatly  revenged  themselves 
on  this  publisher's  delay;  for  years  later,  when 
they  were  living  at  Chawton,  the  same  publisher, 
Mr.  Bull,  was  offered  his  ten  pounds  back  for 
the  surrender  of  the  manuscript,  which  proposi- 
tion he  accepted  with  surprise  and  pleasure.  After 
the  precious  papers  were  received,  he  was  informed 
that  the  dust-covered  pages  were  written  by  the 
author  of  Sense  and  Sensibility  and  Pride  and 
Prejudice  I 

■Northanger  Abbey  bears  the  marks  of  youth. 
It  is  a  burlesque,  and  has  the  virtues  and  defects 
of   that  species.     As   an   example   of   what  Jane 

162 


JANE    AUSTEN 

thought  of  the  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  and  of  the 
whole  school  of  blood  and  thunder,  it  is  highly- 
important;  it  contains  also  many  remarks  on 
novels  and  novel-reading  which  are  valuable  as 
showing  how  Jane  Austen  regarded  her  art.  But 
it  is  not  equal  to  such  a  work  as  Mansfield  Park; 
it  lacks  variety  and  subtlety.  The  narration  of 
the  heroine's  finding  the  washing-bill  in  the  old 
Abbey  is  pure  fun,  youthful  mirth,  and  the  de- 
scription of  the  face  and  figure  of  the  young  girl 
is  no  more  nor  less  than  satire  on  the  popular 
heroines  of  the  day.  Historically,  however,  the 
book  is  of  the  deepest  significance;  for  it  marks 
a  turning-point  in  the  history  of  the  English  novel, 
and  it  tells  us  more  of  its  author's  personal  views 
than  all  the  rest  of  her  tales  put  together.  It  is 
more  subjective ;  in  the  fifth  chapter  there  is 
an  almost  passionate  defence  of  the  novel  against 
its  detractors,  who  regarded  such  writing  as  merely 
superficial  and  lacking  in  serious  artistic  purpose; 
while  in  the  sixth  chapter.  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
is  favourably  compared  with  the  romances  of 
Mrs.  Radcliffe  and  her  ilk.  Such  a  work,  written 
in  the  very  bloom  of  youth,  is  conclusive  evidence 
of  the  self-conscious  purpose  of  its  author;  it 
proves  that  she  knew  exactly  what  she  wanted ; 
that  her  purpose  in  art  was  definite,  and  unalter- 
able.    In  Northanger  Abbey  she  showed  how  novels 

163 


ESSAYS   ON    BOOKS 

ought  not  to  be  written ;  her  other  books  are 
illustrations  of  what  she  conceived  to  be  the  true 
theory. 

Visitors  to  Bath  have  always  loved  this  story, 
as  it  deals  with  places  that  shine  bright  in  the 
memory;  she  returned  to  these  familiar  scenes  in 
Persuasion,  a  far  greater  work,  and  it  was  fitting 
that  her  two  Bath  guide-books  should  have  ap- 
peared together.  Miss  Austen  had  been  at  least 
twice  in  this  gay  city  before  the  family  moved 
thither ;  which  gave  her  the  necessary  experience, 
and  proves  that  here,  as  elsewhere,  she  kept  within 
the  limits  of  her  actual  knowledge. 

Of  Lady  Susan  and  The  Watsons,  little  need  be 
said,  and  it  is  probable  that  Jane  Austen  would 
have  forbidden  their  publication.  They  appeared 
together  with  the  second  edition  of  Mr.  Austen- 
Leigh's  Memoir,  in  187 1.  No  one  knows  exactly 
when  they  were  written ;  the  fact  that  Lady  Susan 
is  in  the  form  of  letters,  as  was  the  first  draft  of 
Sense  and  Sensibility,  seems  to  set  the  date  of  its 
composition  before  that  of  Pride  and  Prejudice,  at 
the  very  beginning  of  her  career.  This  opinion 
is  shared  by  Mr.  Oscar  Fay  Adams,  whose  Story 
of  Jane  Austen^ s  Life  is  a  model  of  its  kind.  Lady 
Susan  has  flashes  of  great  brilliance,  but  really 
adds  little  to  its  writer's  fame.  She  was  evidently 
164 


JANE    AUSTEN 

dissatisfied  with  it,  for  she  left  it  in  her  portfoHo ; 
it  is  the  raw  material  of  literature,  rather  than  the 
finished  product. 

The  date  of  the  composition  of  the  unfinished 
fragment.  The  Watsons,  can  be  guessed  with 
more  evidence.  The  water-marks  of  the  years 
1803  and  1804  were  found  on  the  manuscript, 
after  a  careful  examination ;  this  makes  it  of 
course  certain  that  it  was  not  composed  before 
those  dates,  but  leaves  us  in  the  dark  as  to  its 
exact  time.  The  most  probable  supposition  seems 
to  be  that  she  worked  at  it  while  living  in  Bath, 
but  subsequently  lost  interest,  and  was  content 
to  leave  it  in  obscurity.  It  contains  some  thor- 
oughly mature  characterisation,  together  with 
some  fine  strokes  of  style ;  but  it  wholly  lacks  the 
peculiar  brightness  of  such  a  book  as  Pride  and 
Prejudice. 

We  come  now  to  the  three  great  novels  whose 
inception  and  composition  seem  to  date  wholly 
after  the  year  1809,  when  the  family  moved  to 
Chawton  Cottage.  Mansfield  Park  was  published 
in  1814.  On  5  March  of  that  year,  writing  a 
letter  to  Cassandra,  in  which  she  states  without 
comment  that  she  has  read  the  Corsair,  she  re- 
marks, "Henry  has  this  moment  said  that  he 
likes  my  M.  P.  better  and  better;  he  is  in  the 
third  volume.  I  believe  now  he  has  changed  his 
165 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

mind  as  to  foreseeing  the  end ;  he  said  yesterday, 
at  least,  that  he  defied  anybody  to  say  whether 
H.  C.  [Henry  Crawford]  would  be  reformed,  or 
would  forget  Fanny  in  a  fortnight."  On  the 
ninth  of  March  she  writes  again:  "Henry  has 
finished  Mansfield  Park,  and  his  approbation  has 
not  lessened.  He  found  the  last  half  of  the  last 
volume  extremely  interesting.'"  Later,  on  13  June  : 
"Mr.  Cooke  says  'it  is  the  most  sensible  novel 
he  ever  read,'  and  the  manner  in  which  I  treat 
the  clergy  delights  them  very  much."  The  book, 
it  is  pleasant  to  note,  had  an  immediate  success ; 
for  writing  to  her  niece  Fanny  on  18  November 
of  the  same  year,  she  says:  "You  will  be  glad  to 
hear  that  the  first  edition  of  M.  P.  is  all  sold. 
Your  uncle  Henry  is  rather  wanting  me  to  come 
to  town  to  settle  about  a  second  edition,  but  as 
I  could  not  very  conveniently  leave  home  now, 
I  have  written  him  my  will  and  pleasure,  and 
unless  he  still  urges  it,  shall  not  go.  I  am  very 
greedy  and  want  to  make  the  most  of  it,  but  as 
you  are  much  above  caring  about  money  I  shall 
not  plague  you  with  any  particulars.  The  pleas- 
ures of  vanity  are  more  within  your  comprehension, 
and  you  will  enter  into  mine  at  receiving  the 
praise  which  every  now  and  then  comes  to  me 
through  some  channel  or  other."  To  the  same 
niece  on  30  November:     "Thank  you,  but  it  is 

166 


JANE    AUSTEN 

not  settled  yet  whether  I  do  hazard  a  second 
edition.  We  are  to  see  Egerton  to-day,  when  it 
will  probably  be  determined."  The  second  edition 
actually  appeared  in  1816. 

Next  to  Pride  and  Prejudice,  this  novel  is  per- 
haps Jane  Austen's  greatest  work.  It  contains 
an  immense  variety  of  characters,  none  of  whom 
is  badly  drawn.  Fanny  Price,  Henry  Crawford 
and  his  brilliant  sister,  Mrs.  Norris,  Sir  Thomas 
Bertram,  his  wife,  and  sons  and  daughters,  Fanny's 
father,  mother,  and  family,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Grant 
and  his  wife,  Mr.  Rushworth,  —  these  are  all 
strikingly  individual.  Fanny  is  in  some  respects 
the  loveHest  of  Miss  Austen's  heroines,  and  we 
suffer  with  her  silent  love,  as  she  lets  concealment, 
like  a  worm  i'  the  bud,  prey  on  her  damask  cheek. 
The  contrasts  in  characters  and  scenes  in  this 
narrative  are  truly  dramatic.  As  someone  has 
said,  even  Zola  has  not  excelled  the  picture  of 
sordid  misery  presented  in  the  Price  menage, 
made  positively  terrible  to  Fanny  by  the  remem- 
brance of  the  luxury  she  had  quitted.  Henry 
Crawford  comes  dangerously  near  being  a  hero 
of  romance,  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  Miss 
Austen  could  not  draw  men  as  she  sketched  women. 
He  is,  however,  far  more  real  than  the  Willoughby 
of  Sense  and  Sensibility,  and  his  fascination  for 
certain  kinds  of  women  is  perfectly  comprehensible, 

167 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

just  as  we  easily  understand  why  his  sister  outshone 
for  a  time  the  less  conspicuous  charm  of  Fanny. 
Edmund,  like  all  of  Jane  Austen's  good  men,  is 
inclined  to  be  priggish ;  but  he  is  not  lacking  in 
reality.  Dr.  Grant  was  probably  known  only 
too  well  at  the  Steventon  parsonage ;  but  after 
'  all,  while  somewhat  selfish,  and  decidedly  glutton- 
ous, he  is  not  made  contemptible.  Mrs.  Norris 
is  one  of  the  best  drawn  characters  in  the  story ; 
she  is  indeed  so  offensively  real,  that  she  gets  on 
a  reader's  nerves,  and  we  realise  how  formidable 
she  must  have  been  to  a  creature  like  Fanny. 
Sin  and  disgrace  enter  into  this  powerful  novel 
more  than  into  any  other  of  Miss  Austen's  works ; 
but  it  is  the  character  of  the  sinner,  and  not  the 
details  of  the  sin,  that  the  author  analyses.  She 
was  interested  not  in  the  sensations  of  sin,  but 
wholly  in  the  processes  of  mind  that  lead  up  to  it ; 
being  a  true  psychologist.  Of  all  Miss  Austen's 
masterpieces,  Mansfield  Park  is  the  richest  in  its 
display  of  artistic  resources. 

Emma,  bearing  on  its  three  title-pages  the  date 
1816,  had  been  advertised  to  appear  in  the  preced- 
ing December.  Since  the  publication  of  Mans- 
field Park,  early  in  1814,  Miss  Austen  steadily 
worked  on  this  story,  and  was  far  advanced  with 
it  by  the  spring  of  181 5.    The  dedication  of  Emma 

168 


JANE   AUSTEN 

and  the  circumstances  that  led  to  it  are  interest- 
ing, and  prove,  that  although  the  author's  name 
never  appeared  with  her  books,  her  identity  was 
fairly  well  known.  During  the  autumn  of  1815 
her  brother  Henry  fell  seriously  ill,  and  Jane  went 
to  London  to  take  care  of  him.  One  of  the  Prince 
Regent's  physicians  was  in  constant  attendance, 
and  he  knew  that  the  quiet  woman  who  seemed 
anxious  only  for  her  brother's  recovery  was  the 
great  novelist.  He  gave  her  deep  pleasure  by  the 
information  that  the  Prince  was  an  assiduous 
reader  of  her  books ;  that  a  full  set  reposed  in 
every  one  of  the  royal  residences ;  that  the  Prince 
had  been  informed  that  Miss  Austen  was  in  Lon- 
don, etc.,  etc.  His  Royal  Highness  immediately 
requested  Mr.  Clarke,  the  librarian  of  Carlton 
House,  not  only  to  invite  the  lady  to  visit  the 
palace  and  view  the  Prince's  library  and  other 
rooms,  but  to  inform  her  that  if  she  were  writing 
another  novel,  she  might  dedicate  it  to  him.  The 
following  correspondence  immediately  took  place  — 

"Nov.  IS,  1815. 
"  Sir,  —  I  must  take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  a  ques- 
tion. Among  the  many  flattering  attentions  which  I  re- 
ceived from  you  at  Carlton  House  on  Monday  last  was  the 
information  of  my  being  at  liberty  to  dedicate  any  future 
work  to  His  Royal  Highness  the  Prince  Regent,  without  the 
necessity  of  any  solicitation  on  my  part.  Such,  at  least,  I 
believed  to  be  your  words ;  but  as  I  am  very  anxious  to  be 

169 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

quite  certain  of  what  was  intended,  I  entreat  you  to  have 
the  goodness  to  inform  me  how  such  a  permission  is  to  be 
understood,  and  whether  it  is  incumbent  on  me  to  show 
my  sense  of  the  honour  by  inscribing  the  work  now  in  the 
press  to  His  Royal  Highness;  I  should  be  equally  con- 
cerned to  appear  either  presximptuous  or  ungrateful." 

To  which  communication  she  received  the  fol- 
lowing reply : 

"Carlton  House,  Nov.  i6,  1815. 

"Dear  Madam,  —  It  is  certainly  not  incumbent  on  you 
to  dedicate  your  work  now  in  the  press  to  His  Royal  High- 
ness ;  but  if  you  wish  to  do  the  Regent  that  honour  either 
now  or  at  any  future  period  I  am  happy  to  send  you  that 
permission,  which  need  not  require  any  more  trouble  or 
soUcitation  on  your  part." 

Mr.  Clarke  added  that  every  novel  she  wrote 
increased  his  opinion  of  her  powers,  and  that 
Mansfield  Park  had  reflected  the  highest  honour 
on  her  genius  and  her  principles. 

Shortly  after,  in  response  to  another  letter 
from  the  royal  librarian,  she  wrote  in  the  fol- 
lowing interesting  vein : 

"Dec.  II. 
"  Dear  Sir,  —  My  Emma  is  now  so  near  publication 
that  I  feel  it  right  to  assure  you  of  my  not  having  forgotten 
your  kind  recommendation  of  an  early  copy  for  Carlton 
House,  and  that  I  have  Mr.  Murray's  promise  of  its  being 
sent  to  His  Royal  Highness,  under  cover  to  you,  three  days 
previous  to  the  work  being  really  out.  I  must  make  use  of 
this  opportunity  to  thank  you,  dear  Sir,  for  the  very  high 
praise  you  bestow  on  my  other  novels.     I  am  too  vain  to 

170 


JANE    AUSTEN 

wish  to  convince  you  that  you  have  praised  them  beyond 
their  merits.  My  greatest  anxiety  at  present  is  that  this 
fourth  work  should  not  disgrace  what  was  good  in  the 
others.  But  on  this  point  I  will  do  myself  the  justice  to 
declare  that,  whatever  may  be  my  wishes  for  its  success,  I 
am  strongly  haunted  with  the  idea  that  to  those  readers 
who  have  preferred  Pride  and  PreJ2idice  it  wUl  appear  in- 
ferior in  wit,  and  to  those  who  have  preferred  Mansfield 
Park  inferior  in  good  sense." 

Emma  is  unique  among  Jane  Austen's  works  in 
that  the  reader's  attention  is  almost  entirely  con- 
centrated upon  one  character.  In  this  respect  it 
differs  most  widely  of  all  from  Mansfield  Park, 
where  the  interest  is  more  generally  diffused  than 
in  any  other  of  her  stories.  She  felt  deep  misgiv- 
ings as  to  the  popular  and  critical  reception  of 
Emma,  as  the  letter  printed  immediately  above 
sufficiently  shows ;  but  while,  for  one  reason  or 
another,  the  majority  of  her  admirers  do  actually 
prefer  both  Pride  and  Prejudice  and  Mansfield 
Park  to  this  later  production,  she  need  have  felt 
no  fear  that  its  publication  would  lower  her  rep- 
utation. On  the  contrary,  there  are  many  who 
place  Emma  first  in  the  list  of  the  author's  novels. 
This  "sturdy  young  patrician,"  as  somebody  has 
called  her,  is  at  least  refreshingly  assertive  and 
self-reliant,  most  of  all  when  she  is  in  the  wrong, 
thereby  differing  from  Fanny  Price,  who  hardly 
dared  call  her  soul  her  own.     What  a  powerful 

171 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

contrast  between  this  heroine  and  the  one  whom 
she  followed  into  the  world,  and  what  an  illustra- 
tion of  creative  power  to  make  both  girls  so  re- 
markably attractive !  Emma  has  more  actual 
faults  than  any  other  of  Miss  Austen's  persons 
who  are  intended  to  gain  the  reader's  sympathy. 
She  is  something  of  a  snob,  understands  perfectly 
the  privileges  of  her  social  rank,  and  means  to 
have  others  understand  them  as  well.  She  thinks 
she  understands  human  nature,  and  delights  to 
act  in  the  role  of  match-maker,  in  which  capacity 
she  is  a  failure.  Best  of  all,  she  is  ignorant  of  her 
own  heart,  as  the  most  charming  heroines  in  fiction 
are  wont  to  be.  She  does  not  realise  that  she  loves 
Knightley  until  the  spark  of  jealousy  sets  her  soul 
aflame.  The  curious  thing  is,  that  before  we  finish 
the  book  we  actually  like  her  all  the  better  for  her 
faults,  and  for  her  numerous  mistakes;  her  heart 
is  pure,  sound,  and  good,  and  her  sense  of  prin- 
ciple is  as  deeply  rooted  as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar. 
She  is,  however,  a  snob ;  and  this  is  the  only  in- 
stance in  fiction  that  I  can  remember  at  this 
moment  where  a  snob  is  not  only  attractive,  but 
lovable. 

The  plot  of  the  story,  that  which  critics  used 
to  call  the  "fable,"  is  not  so  well  ordered  or  so 
convincing  as  in  Mansfield  Park.  It  by  no  means 
gives  the  sense  of  the  inevitable  that  we  feel  in 

172 


JANE    AUSTEN 

reading  Pride  and  Prejudice.  The  suspicion  crosses 
our  mind  at  times  that  the  author  is  about  to  ar- 
range a  surprise  for  us,  though  we  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  be.  We  are  dazzled  at  the  skill, 
brilliancy,  and  cleverness  displayed,  and  we  ad- 
mire the  genius  which  is  so  constantly  in  evidence ; 
but  in  some  of  the  other  stories  we  have  no  thought 
of  admiring  skill  or  genius,  for  we  feel  that  it  is 
not  art,  but  life.  In  other  words,  the  dramatic 
illusion  is  not  so  perfect  in  Emma;  the  novel  is 
simply  a  wonderful  tour  de  force. 

Emma  was  the  last  production  that  Jane  Austen 
saw  in  type,  for  her  life  was  drawing  to  a  close. 
How  active  her  pen  was  in  these  last  days  may 
be  seen  by  the  fact  that  while  she  was  revising  the 
proof-sheets  of  Emma  she  was  busily  engaged  on 
a  new  book.  As  early  as  13  March  1816,  she 
writes  to  her  niece  Fanny,  "I  will  answer  your 
kind  questions  more  than  you  expect.  Miss 
Catherine  is  put  upon  the  shelf  for  the  present, 
and  I  do  not  know  that  she  will  ever  come  out; 
but  I  have  a  something  ready  for  publication, 
which  may,  perhaps,  appear  about  a  twelvemonth 
hence.  It  is  short  —  about  the  length  of  Catherine. 
This  is  for  yourself  alone.  Neither  Mr.  Salusbury 
nor  Mr.  Wildman  is  to  know  of  it."  Mr.  Oscar 
Fay  Adams  says :  "  Mr.  Austen-Leigh  in  his  bi- 
ography makes  no  mention  of  Catherine;    and  I 

173 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

am  not  aware  that  this  reference  to  it  appears  to 
have  been  noticed  by  any  writer  upon  Jane  Austen. 
Its  author  probably  never  subjected  it  to  revision, 
from  the  feeling  that  it  was  not  up  to  the  level  of 
her  other  work,  and  took  care  that  it  should  not 
be  published.  ...  I  am  led  to  wish  that  this 
and  not  Lady  Susan  had  fallen  into  her  nephew's 
hands."  Is  not  the  explanation  of  the  Catherine 
mystery  really  a  very  simple  one  ?  It  has  oc- 
curred to  me  only  this  moment  at  my  desk,  but 
it  seems  convincing.  The  reference  must  be  to 
Northanger  Abbey,  whose  heroine  is  Catherine. 
It  is  certain  that  Jane  Austen  thought  of  publish- 
ing this  book  before  her  death,  and  certain  also 
that  she  did  not.  The  novel  also  is  short,  "about 
the  length"  of  Persuasion.  This  covers  every 
difficulty,  including  the  supposed  total  disappear- 
ance of  another  book. 

On  28  March  she  writes  to  the  same  correspond- 
ent :  "  Do  not  be  surprised  at  finding  Uncle  Henry 
acquainted  with  my  having  another  ready  for 
publication.  I  could  not  say  No  when  he  asked 
me,  but  he  knows  nothing  more  of  it.  You  will 
not  like  it,  so  you  need  not  be  impatient.  You 
may  perhaps  like  the  heroine,  as  she  is  almost 
too  'good  for  me."  She  had  already  remarked  in 
the  same  letter,  "  Pictures  of  perfection,  as  you 
know,  make  me  sick  and  wicked,"  a  statement 

174 


JANE    AUSTEN 

that  throws  a  flood  of  light  on  the  creation  of  such 
characters  as  Emma,  and  indeed  on  her  whole 
method  of  composition. 

She  finished  Persuasion  in  August  1816,  in  the 
form  in  which  we  have  it  now ;  but  she  thought 
she  had  finished  the  book  on  the  18  July,  for  she 
wrote  at  the  end  of  the  manuscript,  "  Finis,"  and 
then  added  that  date.  The  more  she  thought 
about  the  conclusion,  however,  the  less  she  liked 
it;  and  in  spite  of  failing  health,  she  determined 
to  have  nothing  published  of  which  she  could  not 
approve.  She  therefore  struck  out  Chapter  X, 
and  wrote  in  its  place  two  others,  which  bring 
about  the  denouement  in  a  totally  different  fashion. 
Curious  readers  may  compare  the  condemned 
chapter,  which  appears  in  Mr.  Austen-Leigh's 
Memoir,  with  the  book  as  it  stands ;  and  they 
will  see  that  the  flame  of  genius  burned  brightly 
to  the  last,  for  the  substitution  is  a  marked  im- 
provement on  the  first  version.  It  affords,  also,  as 
has  been  said,  an  illustration  of  her  conscientious 
devotion  to  her  art. 

She  probably  spent  the  rest  of  the  year  1816 
in  revising  and  correcting  the  whole  work ;  and 
on  27  January  she  began  the  composition  of  a 
story,  which  she  wrote  at  steadily,  completing 
twelve  chapters,  under  enormous  difficulties  of 
disease,  by  17  March,  when  she  was  forced  to  lay 

175 


ESSAYS   ON   BOOKS 

aside  all  thoughts  of  book-making.  No  title  was 
ever  given  to  this  narrative,  nor  does  anyone 
know  what  course  the  plot  was  to  follow ;  but  we 
are  assured  by  her  nephew  that  in  the  draft  which 
remains  there  is  no  evidence  of  failing  strength. 

Persuasion  was  not  published  until  1818,  when, 
as  has  been  said,  it  appeared  with  Northanger 
Abbey  and  a  Memoir,  in  four  volumes.  It  thus 
has  a  melancholy  interest  for  us,  as  being  the  last 
work  of  art  that  she  completed.  It  is  one  of  the 
miniature  masterpieces  in  the  English  language, 
and  its  scenes  at  Bath  and  at  Lyme  are  indelibly 
impressed  on  the  reader's  mind.  The  character 
of  Anne  Elliott,  while  completely  lacking  the 
self-assertion  of  Emma,  was,  we  may  be  sure,  a 
pretty  close  approximation  to  what  Jane  Austen 
thought  a  woman  should  be.  There  is  no  moral 
teaching  in  this  book,  any  more  than  in  her  other 
works  of  fiction,  but  the  ethical  element  is  strong, 
and  the  virtues  of  constancy,  purity,  and  modesty 
stand  out  in  bold  relief.  In  some  respects  Anne 
Elliott  is  the  most  spiritual  of  all  Miss  Austen's 
heroines ;  she  has  a  great  soul,  and  we  do  not 
wonder  that  Captain  Wentworth  found  it  difficult 
to  forget  her.  In  her  gentleness,  purity,  and 
sweetness  she  reminds  us  of  the  best  of  all  Russian 
heroines,  Turgenev's  Lisa;  and  like  Lisa,  when 
she  gave  her  heart,  she  gave  it  once  and  for  all. 

176 


JANE   AUSTEN 

Let  no  one  believe  that  Jane  Austen's  men  and 
women  are  deficient  in  passion  because  they  be- 
have with  decency :  to  those  who  have  the  power 
to  see  and  interpret,  there  is  a  depth  of  passion  in 
her  characters  that  far  surpasses  the  emotional 
power  displayed  in  many  novels  where  the  lovers 
seem  to  forget  the  meaning  of  such  words  as  hon- 
our, virtue,  and  fidelity.  To  say  that  Elizabeth 
Bennet,  Darcy,  Knightley,  Captain  Wentworth, 
Fanny  Price,  and  Anne  Elliott  lack  passion,  be- 
cause we  know  that  not  one  of  them  would  have 
sacrificed  a  principle  for  its  enjoyment,  is  to  make 
the  old  error  of  assuming  that  only  those  persons 
have  passions  who  are  unable  to  control  them. 


177 


IV 

DICKENS 

On  the  last  page  of  one  of  Mr.  Arnold  Bennett's 
realistic  romances,  two  men  are  discussing  the 
character  of  the  hero,  and,  as  might  be  expected, 
from  totally  different  points  of  view.  His  jealous 
enemy  petulantly  enquires:  "What  has  he  ever 
done?  He  never  did  a  day's  work  in  his  life." 
To  which  the  other  responds,  *'He  is  engaged  in 
the  great  work  of  cheering  us  all  up." 

Such  work  in  the  world  is  needed,  and  is  in 
truth  of  enormous  importance.  When  it  is  suc- 
cessfully accomplished,  its  reward  should  be  cor- 
respondingly great ;  when  a  supreme  genius  de- 
votes all  his  powers  throughout  his  entire  career  to 
this  single  aim,  the  result  is  of  incalculable  ben- 
efit to  humanity.  The  birth  of  Charles  Dickens 
in  1812  was  one  of  the  best  things  that  happened 
in  the  nineteenth  century;  and  if  the  death  of  a 
comedian  can  eclipse  the  gaiety  of  nations,  the 
death  of  Dickens  in  1870  took  away  the  world's 
chief  benefactor.  Fortunately,  when  a  great  writer 
dies,  he  does  not  cease  to  live,  and  the  sum  of  happi- 

178 


DICKENS 

ness  that  he  bequeaths  accumulates  at  compound 
interest  through  all  time  to  come. 

Now,  the  great  work  in  which  Dickens  was 
engaged  was  the  work  of  cheering  us  all  up.  For 
the  principal  aim  of  his  life  was  not,  like  that  of 
Flaubert,  to  write  his  language  well ;  nor  was  it, 
like  that  of  Stevenson,  to  protest  against  one  form 
of  fiction  by  writing  another;  nor,  like  that  of 
Jane  Austen  and  Tolstoi,  to  tell  the  exact  truth 
about  humanity.  We  may  not  all  agree  as  to 
whether  Dickens  was  a  realist  or  a  romanticist, 
as  to  whether  his  portraits  are  accurate  or  cari- 
catures, as  to  whether  his  style  was  fundamentally 
good  or  fundamentally  bad ;  but  we  are  virtually 
agreed  that  his  novels,  from  Pickwick  Papers  to 
Our  Mutual  Friend,  have  been,  are,  and  will  be,  a 
prodigious  and  permanent  contribution  to  the 
happiness  of  men,  women,  and  children  all  over 
the  world.  He  loved  humanity,  and  I  do  not 
suppose  there  ever  was  a  writer  more  beloved  than 
he.  The  supreme  glory  of  being  an  artist  lies  in 
the  grateful  homage  of  human  hearts.  We  admire 
our  discoverers,  our  geographers,  our  inventors ; 
we  pay  them  the  tribute  of  respect.  We  realise 
the  value  of  men  who  throw  bridges  across  vast 
chasms,  who  enable  us  to  talk  with  friends  hundreds 
of  miles  away  —  men  who  conquer  like  gods  the 
elements  of  earth,  water,  and  air.  We  cannot  get 
179 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

along  without  them  any  more  than  we  can  get 
along  without  food  and  clothing.  Even  more 
highly  do  we  value  those  who  dwell  day  and  night 
in  laboratories,  spending  years  in  patient  search 
after  the  spirit  of  evil  represented  by  a  microbe ; 
for  the  result  of  their  lonely  toil  is  that  sickness 
and  physical  pain  are  diminished.  The  anguish 
departs,  the  blind  see,  and  the  lame  walk.  Strictly 
speaking,  these  scientists  are  perhaps  the  most 
useful  members  of  society.  But  the  first  place 
in  our  hearts  is  held  not  by  those  who  make  new 
machinery  or  by  those  who  arrest  the  progress  of 
disease,  but  by  those  who  in  a  certain  sense  are 
not  useful  at  all.  Those  who  give  us  ideas  rather 
than  facts,  those  who  enrich  our  imagination  and 
our  memory,  those  who  ravish  our  hearts  with 
harmonies,  who  thrill  us  with  a  rag  of  canvas 
and  a  block  of  stone,  who  mist  our  eyes  with 
mirth  and  with  sympathy  by  purely  imaginary 
persons  in  imaginary  situations  in  printed  type  — 
those  are  the  ones  we  love.  For  although  man 
cannot  live  without  bread,  he  cannot  live  by  bread 
alone. 

Mr.  Kipling  has  neither  affection  nor  admira- 
tion for  our  country,  and  we  are  all  keenly  aware 
of  the  fact ;  yet  when  he  lay  close  to  death  in  New 
York,  the  bulletins  from  his  bed  preceded  in  im- 
portance all  other  news  in  every  town  in  the  United 

i8o 


DICKENS 

States,  and  thousands  who  had  never  seen  him 
talked  of  his  illness  with  a  lump  in  the  throat. 
Some  years  ago,  an  enterprising  German  news- 
paper sent  out  a  vast  number  of  blanks  to  be  filled 
in  with  the  names  of  the  ten  men  whose  lives  were 
considered  most  important  to  the  welfare  of  Ger- 
many. After  the  Kaiser  and  the  Chancellor,  Ger- 
hart  Hauptmann  stood  first  on  the  list,  while 
Koch  and  Roentgen  trailed  in  the  rear. 

To  realise  the  true  greatness  of  Dickens,  one 
need  only  think  for  a  moment  what  English  fiction 
would  be  without  him.  If  not  the  highest,  he  at 
all  events  fills  the  biggest  place.  Of  the  dozen 
British  novelists  who  hold  permanent  positions, 
he  would  be  the  last  one  we  could  spare.  For, 
looking  at  him  from  many  points  of  view,  he  seems 
the  most  original  writer  of  them  all.  In  his  char- 
acters and  in  his  style,  he  resembled  none  of  his 
predecessors.  If  we  lost  Scott,  we  should  still 
have  Stevenson,  and  vice  versa ;  if  we  lost  Fielding, 
we  should  still  have  Thackeray ;  if  we  lost  Jane 
Austen,  we  should  still  have  George  Eliot.  But 
if  we  lost  Dickens,  to  whom  should  we  go?  The 
loss  would  make  a  blank  appalling  to  contemplate. 
Smollett?  Put  Smollett  in  Dickens's  place,  and 
see  what  becomes  of  Smollett.  Of  all  the  careless, 
ill-considered  commonplaces  of  criticism,  the  state- 
ment that  Dickens  resembles  Smollett  is  one  of 

i8i 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

the  most  absurd.  In  nearly  all  vital  things  Dickens 
was  the  exact  opposite  of  Smollett.  Those  who 
say  that  there  is  a  family  likeness  between  Smollett 
and  Dickens  have  either  never  seen  Smollett  in  a 
strong  light  or  else  they  have  forgotten  him.  And 
it  is  surprising  how  easy  it  is  to  forget  Smollett, 
although  he  was  a  man  of  genius. 

I  say  that  in  nearly  all  vital  things  Dickens  is 
the  exact  opposite  of  Smollett.  The  personality 
of  a  writer  is  the  thing  that  counts,  and  even  the 
most  objective  writers  cannot  as  a  rule  conceal 
their  personality.  In  fact,  the  only  one  I  have 
ever  read  who  has  really  hidden  himself  is  Shake- 
speare —  one  of  the  numerous  miracles  displayed 
in  his  works.  The  personality  of  Smollett,  his 
way  of  thinking,  his  attitude  toward  life,  and  his 
attitude  toward  the  children  of  his  imagination, 
are  in  striking  contrast  to  Dickens.  Of  all  the 
great  British  novelists,  Smollett  is  the  most  heart- 
less, while  the  bigness  of  Dickens's  heart  —  its 
throbbing  love  and  sympathy  —  is  the  most  ob- 
vious and  salient  characteristic  of  his  books.  The 
moral  attitude  of  a  writer,  his  grasp  of  the  religious 
and  moral  basis  of  life,  is  of  the  highest  importance, 
for  out  of  that  flows  the  stream  of  his  work,  and 
its  quality  and  flavour  are  largely  determined  by 
it.  Now,  there  is  no  English  novelist  of  high 
rank  whose  books  betray  so  Httle  of  religion  and 

182 


DICKENS 

morality  as  Smollett's,  and  none  who  shows  more 
than  Dickens.  In  Roderick  Random  and  in  Pere- 
grine Pickle,  God,  Christianity,  and  the  future  life 
are  as  though  they  were  not.  The  light  of  humour 
and  the  light  of  intellect  are  there,  but  there  is  no 
spiritual  radiance.  On  the  other  hand,  Dickens 
was  so  obsessed  by  religious  and  moral  forces  that 
his  novels,  like  those  of  Dostoevski,  are  really  a 
commentary  on  the  four  gospels :  his  characters 
concrete  illustrations  of  ethical  ideas ;  while  the 
whole  vast  panorama  is  illumined  by  the  splendour 
of  the  other  world.  Take  Christianity  and  im- 
mortality out  of  Dickens,  and  his  fire  straightway 
becomes  ashes.  You  cannot  take  these  ideas  out 
of  Smollett,  because  he  never  put  them  in.  I  do 
not  of  course  mean  to  say  that  Smollett  was  an 
immoral  writer.  He  was  not  nearly  so  immoral  as 
Sterne,  although  he  was  a  physician  and  Sterne  a 
minister  of  the  gospel. 

The  moral  grasp  of  a  novelist  is  shown  most 
clearly  in  his  attitude  toward  his  characters. 
Tolstoi  said  that  an  artist  need  not  write  a  book 
with  a  moral  purpose,  least  of  all  with  the  main 
object  of  enforcing  some  particular  truth  that 
might  be  dear  to  him ;  but  his  attitude  toward 
his  own  characters  should  always  be  absolutely 
clear.  He  went  on  to  say  that  this  deficiency  — 
the  inabihty  to  distinguish  between  what  is  right 

183 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

and  what  is  wrong,  irrespective  of  creed  —  is  the 
most  glaring  deficiency  in  the  works  of  Guy  de 
Maupassant.  That  this  brilliant  Frenchman  orig- 
inally possessed  some  moral  force  is  clearly  evi- 
dent in  the  first  and  greatest  of  his  novels,  Une  vie; 
that  he  ultimately  lost  it,  just  as  one  may  lose  the 
sense  of  hearing  or  of  sight,  is  equally  evident  in 
his  later  books,  like  Notre  coeur  and  Fort  comme  la 
mort.  Now,  the  attitude  of  Dickens  toward  his 
characters,  though  sometimes  unnecessarily  evi- 
dent, was  always  correct.  It  is  shown  not  only 
in  a  general,  but  in  a  particular  and  peculiarly 
charming  manner  —  I  mean  in  the  way  his  char- 
acters develop.  For  some  of  the  best  of  his  char- 
acters are  not  at  all  fixed  types.  The  Pickwick 
of  the  earlier  chapters  is  different  from  the  Pick- 
wick at  the  end  of  the  book.  And  the  great 
beauty  of  this  projection  is  that  Pickwick  does 
not  change;  he  develops.  He  seems  at  first  an 
object  meant  primarily  to  arouse  laughter,  at 
times  the  butt  of  the  company,  of  the  reader,  and 
of  the  author ;  but  when  we  finish  the  last  chapter, 
we  realise  that  Mr.  Pickwick  is  a  noble-minded 
gentleman,  whom  we  love,  honour,  and  respect. 
A  remarkable  instance  of  this  same  method  of 
development  in  character  is  seen  in  the  case  of 
Dick  Swiveller.  In  the  early  stages  of  our  ac- 
quaintance   with    this    never-to-be-forgotten    per- 

184 


DICKENS 

sonage,  he  impresses  us  as  little  more  than  an 
idle  loafer ;  but  Dickens,  looking  on  this  young 
man,  loved  him,  and  raised  him  to  the  very  heights 
of  chivalry.  For,  with  conditions  and  circum- 
stances considerably  altered,  the  attitude  of  Mr. 
Richard  Swiveller  to  the  wretched  little  drudge 
was  as  full  of  noble  courtesy  as  that  of  Lohengrin 
to  Elsa. 

The  mind,  heart,  and  soul  of  Dickens  were 
ablaze  with  faith  —  faith  in  God  and  faith  in 
humanity.  This  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  he 
succeeded  so  well  in  the  great  work  of  cheering 
us  all  up.  Faith  was  the  furnace  that  warmed 
every  room  in  the  great  structures  he  built.  A 
man  without  faith  may  have  many  excellent  quali- 
ties, he  may  be  a  great  artist,  or  become  an  im- 
mortal writer ;  but  he  is  not  our  refuge  and  strength, 
a  very  present  help  in  trouble.  Dickens,  however, 
had  sufficient  faith  to  inspire  himself  and  countless 
thousands  who  came  within  the  circle  of  his  in- 
fluence, for  he  really  believed  in  ultimate  good. 
Like  Browning  he 

"Never  doubted  clouds  would  break; 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted,  wrong  would 
triumph ; " 

and  he  naturally  wrote  his  novels  from  that  point 
of  view,  for  he  interpreted  the  significance  of  life 
in  just  that  way.     Perhaps  the  most  glaring  con- 

i8S 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

trast  between  the  work  of  Dickens  and  that  of 
much  contemporary  literature  in  191 2  is  the 
presence  and  absence  of  the  central  fire  of  faith. 
A  large  number  of  brilliantly  written  novels  and 
dramas  in  our  time  betray  not  merely  weariness, 
gloom,  and  heartsickness,  but,  above  all,  bewilder- 
ment and  uncertainty.  There  is  not  only  no  help- 
ful philosophy  of  life :  there  is  no  philosophy  of 
life  at  all.  Thence  comes  the  depressing  monotony 
that  hangs  over  modern  Continental  literature 
like  a  cloud  —  the  monotony  of  a  ship  whose 
steering-gear  is  broken,  driven  hither  and  thither 
by  every  gust,  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  storm's 
caprice.  This  atmosphere  of  monotonous  restless- 
ness is  well  exhibited  in  a  recent  French  play, 
with  the  significant  title,  Les  marionettes.  The 
only  good  character  in  the  drama  finally  speaks 
out  his  mind,  expressing  as  well  the  sentiments  of 
the  spectators :  "L'air  qu'on  y  respire  est  mauvais 
.  .  .  oui,  j'ai  besoin  de  calme,  de  solitude  .  .  . 
et  je  serais  heureux  surtout  d'entendre  parler 
d'autre  chose  que  d'amour." 

Dickens's  characters  are  not  marionettes.  His 
pages  are  charged  with  the  tremendous  vitality  of 
their  author's  mind.  Life  was  inexpressibly  sweet 
to  him,  and  he  had  a  veritable  zest  for  it.  He  loved 
the  streets  of  London  because  they  were  filled 
with  crowds  of  men,  women,  and  children.     His 

186 


DICKENS 

zest  for  life  is  shown  in  the  way  he  describes  a 
frosty  winter  morning,  the  pleasant  excitement 
of  the  departure  of  a  coach,  and  the  naive  delight 
he  takes  in  the  enormous  meals  his  characters 
devour.  He  fills  the  hungry  with  good  things. 
It  would  be  interesting  sometime  to  write  a  critical 
essay  on  various  authors  from  the  strictly  culinary 
point  of  view.  Some  novelists  never  give  us  any- 
thing to  eat  and  drink,  others  give  us  too  much. 
The  delicate  reserve,  austerity,  and  shyness  char- 
acteristic of  Hawthorne  both  as  an  artist  and  as  a 
man  appear  in  a  great  variety  of  ways,  and  appear 
specifically  in  the  fact  that  he  seldom  places  his 
characters  about  the  dinner-table,  and  when  he 
does,  the  food  lacks  both  variety  and  abundance. 
In  Dickens,  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  beef,  mutton, 
vegetables,  pudding,  and  beer.  No  sooner  do 
two  characters  meet  on  the  street,  than  they  ad- 
journ to  a  restaurant,  where  every  article  in  the 
long  bill  of  fare  is  portrayed  with  realistic  relish. 
Dickens  discusses  gravy  as  a  Frenchman  discusses 
love  or  a  pedant  an  old  text.  Think  of  the  stu- 
pendous meals  consumed  by  Homeric  heroes, 
with  their  ''rage  of  hunger,"  and  then  read  the 
Faerie  Queene,  where  no  meals  are  served  except 
to  one  of  the  seven  deadly  sins  !  No  dyspeptic 
should  ever  read  Dickens,  for  the  vicarious  diet 
of  the  characters  might  kill  him. 
187 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Every  child  in  England  and  America  to-day 
should  be  grateful  to  Dickens,  for  the  present 
happy  condition  of  children  is  due  in  no  small 
degree  to  his  unremitting  efforts  in  their  behalf. 
Under  the  Puritan  regime,  there  was  no  place  for 
children,  while  to-day  we  have  gone  so  far  in  the 
other  direction  that  many  households  revolve 
about  the  nursery,  and  the  caprices  of  the  child 
are  carefully  studied  and  gratified  by  doting  par- 
ents. This  is  the  golden  age  for  children,  and  I 
suppose  they  are  making  the  most  of  it,  and  will 
continue  to  do  so,  while  the  kindergarten  and 
nature-study  take  the  place  of  discipline.  But 
in  Dickens's  boyhood  the  influence  of  the  Puritan 
autocracy  of  maturity  had  by  no  means  passed 
away.  Our  novelist  must  have  suffered  continual 
mortification  as  a  child  to  write  about  the  bad 
manners  of  elders  toward  children  with  such  mor- 
dant bitterness.  What  he  emphasised  was  not 
so  much  the  material  discomfort  constantly  suf- 
fered by  children  as  the  daily  insults  to  their 
dignity.  They  were  repressed,  they  were  beaten, 
they  were  starved ;  but  worse  than  that,  they 
were  treated  with  a  grinning  condescension  more 
odious  than  deliberate  insult.  Dickens,  with  all 
the  force  of  his  genius,  insisted  on  the  inherent  dig- 
nity of  childhood.  I  confess  I  cannot  read  with- 
out  squirming  those   passages   in  Great  Expecta- 


DICKENS 

tions  where  every  visitor  greeted  the  small  boy  by 
ruffling  his  hair;  and  I  think  most  of  us  can  re- 
member without  any  difficulty  and  with  a  flush  of 
joy  those  extremely  rare  cases  in  our  own  child- 
hood when  some  grown-up  visitor  treated  us  with 
real,  instead  of  with  mock,  respect.  It  is  perhaps 
the  final  test  of  a  gentleman  —  his  attitude  toward 
children. 

Dickens's  novels  are  unequal  in  value,  but,  un- 
Hke  many  writers,  he  had  no  single  great  period 
and  no  prolonged  lack  of  inspiration.  Pickwick 
Papers  and  Oliver  Twist,  which  came  very  early  in 
his  career,  are  great  books,  but  so  indubitably  are 
Great  Expectations  and  Our  Mutual  Friend  which 
came  very  late.  Indeed,  I  think,  with  the  single 
exception  of  David  Copperfield,  Great  Expectations 
is  his  finest  work.  And  yet  it  followed  hard  upon 
the  only  two  novels  of  his  that  I  dislike,  Little 
Dorrit,  and  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  As  for  Little 
Dorrit,  it  is  not  too  much  of  a  good  thing  so  much 
as  it  is  too  much  of  a  bad  thing;  and  as  for  the 
much-praised  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  it  rings  to  my 
ears  false  from  first  to  last.  His  genius  was  not 
fitted  for  historical  romance,  any  more  than  it 
was  for  the  writing  of  history,  as  his  Child's  History 
of  England  abundantly  demonstrates.  Indeed,  I 
think  that  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  is  as  inferior  to 
David  Copperfield  as  —  to  refer  to  that  splendid 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

reincarnation  of  Dickens  in  our  own  day,  long  life 
to  him! — An  Affair  oj  Dishonour  is  to  Joseph 
Vance.  All  we  can  say  of  these  two  historical 
romances  is  that  they  are  better  than  most  con- 
temporary attempts  in  the  same  direction.  But 
of  genius  we  always  expect  works  of  genius,  which 
is  sometimes  very  hard  on  the  genius. 

Two  things  constantly  said  of  Dickens  seem  to 
me  in  the  last  analysis  untrue  —  that  he  was  pri- 
marily a  caricaturist  and  that  he  was  careless  as 
an  artist.  A  caricaturist  is  not  by  nature  original: 
he  must  have  a  model ;  otherwise  he  cannot  work, 
and  the  point  of  his  caricature  is  lost.  Now, 
Dickens  was  profoundly  and  in  the  highest  sense 
an  original  writer ;  his  creation  of  character  had 
that  originality  possessed  only  by  genius.  Sam 
Weller,  Dick  Swiveller,  Ham,  Steerforth,  Tom 
Pinch,  Mr.  Boffin,  to  select  out  of  what  an  aston- 
ishing number  and  variety !  are  not  caricatures ; 
they  are  original  creations,  imperishable  additions 
to  our  literary  acquaintances.  And  if  one  really 
doubts  that  Dickens  was  a  serious  and  sincere 
artist,  one  should  read  again  that  chapter  in  David 
Copperfield  where  the  profound  conviction  of  his 
life  was  expressed,  namely,  that  the  one  sure  road 
to  failure  is  to  belittle  one's  own  calling  and  eflforts, 
and  to  take  one's  chosen  work  in  the  world  in  a 
flippant  or  ironical   way.     I  am  sure  that  many 

190 


DICKENS 

readers  cannot  see   those  words  staring  at  them 
from  the  page  without  a  wave  of  shame. 

Some  years  ago  I  organised  among  my  under- 
graduate students  a  Faerie  Queene  Club.  The 
sole  requirement  for  active  membership  was  that 
the  candidate  should  have  read  every  word  of 
that  vast  poem.  One  of  the  youths,  writing  an 
essay  on  his  sensations  after  concluding  his  task, 
said,  "The  Faerie  Queene  is  so  great  that  it  is 
absurd  to  attempt  to  measure  its  greatness ;  we 
can  only  measure  ourselves  by  it."  The  remark 
betrayed  healthy  modesty  and  true  insight,  and 
the  boy  who  said  it  has  already  achieved  literary 
distinction.  I  am  glad  to  adapt  his  words  to 
Dickens.  He  is  so  great  that  we  can  only  measure 
ourselves  by  him.  There  are  many  who  fancy 
they  have  outgrown  Dickens ;  but  I  suspect  that 
they  would  change  their  minds  if  only  they  would 
read  him.  Those  who  think  they  have  outgrown 
him  really  need  him  the  most ;  just  as  no  one  needs 
faith  so  much  as  those  who  have  lost  it.  They 
need  to  be  cheered  up.  And  Dickens  was  engaged 
in  the  great  work  of  cheering  us  all  up. 


191 


CARLYLE'S  LOVE-LETTERS 

Time  has  dealt  ironically  with  the  man  who  re- 
quested that  no  biography  of  him  should  be 
written.  From  earliest  youth  to  extreme  old  age 
he  resented  the  intrusion  of  curious  eyes  within 
his  own  four  walls.  Writing  to  Miss  Welsh,  12 
October  1823,  discoursing  eloquently  on  the  thought 
that  after  death  our  friends  will  remember  us  with 
love  alone,  and  all  our  faults  be  forgotten,  he  ex- 
claims, "The  idea  that  all  my  deformities  shall  be 
hid  beneath  the  grass  that  covers  me,  and  I  shall 
live  like  a  stainless  being  in  the  hearts  of  those  that 
loved  me,  often  of  itself  almost  reconciles  me  to  the 
inexorable  law  of  fate."  What  a  motto  this  sen- 
tence would  have  been  for  Froude  to  have  placed 
on  the  title-page  of  his  biography!  And  we  know 
that  Froude  had  read  these  very  words  in  Carlyle's 
own  manuscript.  The  "stainless  being"  has  had 
his  "deformities"  subjected  to  a  ruthless  search- 
light. The  idlest  vagaries  of  his  dreams  and  the 
most  hasty  imprecations  of  transient  irritation 
have  received  the  permanent  mould  of  cold  t}^e. 
His  best  friend  and  most  ardent  disciple,  in  an 
192 


CARLYLE'S    LOVE-LETTERS 

eager  and  honest  efifort  to  tell  the  whole  truth 
about  him,  laboriously  constructed  a  colossal  myth. 
Let  us  hope  that  Browning  was  right  when  he  said 
that  in  the  next  world  we  shall  enjoy  some  better 
means  of  communication  than  words.  For  lan- 
guage, even  when  used  with  the  excellent  combina- 
tion of  sincerity  and  literary  skill,  often  produces 
an  effect  the  exact  opposite  of  its  maker's  inten- 
tion. But  as  clouds  and  fogs  obscure  a  mountain 
only  for  a  time,  and  are  powerless  to  lessen  its  real 
proportions,  so  misrepresentation  can  never  destroy 
a  great  man.  Truth  lives  in  an  atmosphere  of 
falsehood  as  mountains  live  serenely  amid  clouds. 
And  the  final  truth  is  that  Carlyle's  character  was 
as  noble  as  his  genius  was  lofty. 

Just  as  the  love-letters  of  the  Brownings  form 
one  of  the  greatest  of  the  world's  love  stories,  and 
raise  one's  opinion  of  the  possible  nobleness  of 
human  nature,  so  the  letters  between  Carlyle  and 
Jane  Welsh  would  be  intensely  interesting  had 
neither  writer  attained  other  fame.  It  is  like  a 
novel  or  a  great  drama  :  the  man  loved  the  woman 
from  the  first  moment,  and  after  a  siege  of  five 
years,  captured  her.  At  the  last  it  was  an  uncon- 
ditional surrender ;  but  a  spectator  who  did  not 
know  the  end  would  never  believe  in  a  victorious 
outcome.  Few  better  opportunities  have  ever  been 
given  the  world  to  study  the  intricate  workings  of  a 
o  193 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

woman's  heart.  The  man  in  this  particular  ele- 
ment is  the  constant,  the  known  quantity :  there 
was  not  a  day  in  these  five  years,  even  when  union 
seemed  farther  away  than  a  star,  that  he  did  not 
love  her ;  and  with  the  boldness,  not  of  professional 
art,  but  of  naked  sincerity,  he  told  her  so  again 
and  again.  But  the  woman  —  she  passed  through 
every  conceivable  phase  in  her  mental  and  emo- 
tional attitude  toward  her  correspondent.  To  his 
intense  mortification,  she  addressed  him  first  as 
Mr.  Carslisle:  and  when  remonstrated  with,  did  it  a 
second  time.  Indifference  can  go  no  farther  than 
that.  Then  she  gradually  became  aware  of  his 
extraordinary  mental  power,  and  responded  to  it 
with  unwilling  admiration.  Naturally  enough, 
she  found  his  letters  intellectually  stimulating,  as 
who  would  not  ?  And  being  at  this  time  eaten  up 
with  ambition  herself,  she  felt  that  he  could  aid 
her  immensely  toward  realising  her  vain  dreams 
of  literary  fame.  So  while  opening  her  mind  to 
his  influence,  she  kept  the  door  of  her  heart  firmly 
closed.  Soon  she  began  to  see  that,  mentally,  he 
was  enormously  her  superior :  she  saw  this  with  a 
mortification  that  changed  into  respect;  for  it  is 
the  simple  truth  to  say  that  even  in  the  days  of 
his  greatest  fame  no  one  beHeved  in  Carlyle's 
genius  more  impHcitly  than  did  Jane  Welsh  in  the 
dark  hours  of  his  obscurity.  Whatever  she  was, 
194 


CARLYLE'S    LOVE-LETTERS 

she  was  no  fool :  she  saw  clearly  that  the  obscure 
peasant's  son  who  made  love  to  her  was  one  of  the 
elect  of  all  the  earth.  Then  she  discovered,  that 
while  she  wanted  fame  only,  he  wanted  to  be 
worthy  of  it ;  and  it  dawned  upon  her  that  the  dis- 
tance that  separated  them  morally  was  greater 
than  the  distance  between  their  minds.  So  the 
base  of  her  fancied  social  superiority,  from  which 
she  had  somewhat  contemptuously  regarded  her 
clumsy  admirer,  began  to  shift :  from  looking  down, 
she  found  herself  looking  up :  and  for  the  rest  of 
her  life,  whenever  she  looked  at  Carlyle,  she  looked 
in  no  other  direction  than  that.  In  a  woman,  the 
desire  to  be  good  is  strong,  and  survives  even  in 
the  presence  of  evil ;  Jane  Welsh's  spirit  of  pride 
and  mockery  was  quelled  by  the  simple  moral 
grandeur  of  her  lover.  She  told  him  that  she  loved 
him,  but  was  not  in  love  with  him;  she  knew  the 
difference  well  enough,  for  she  had  been  passion- 
ately in  love  with  Irving,  and  had  suffered  keenly. 
She  had  reached  the  stage  where  she  would  not 
marry  Carlyle,  but  promised  to  marry  nobody 
else ;  and  Carlyle  pretended  to  be  content  with 
that.  Then  came  a  crisis ;  she  was  forced  to  face 
the  possibility  of  losing  him  forever ;  and  the  awful 
blank  revealed  to  her  the  actual  state  of  her  heart, 
and  she  found  she  was  really  in  love.  Carlyle  had 
won  her  without  once  yielding  to  her  caprices, 
195 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

without  one  touch  of  serviHty,  and  without  the 
least  bhndness  to  her  defects :  an  amusing  part  of 
the  correspondence  is  his  complete  frankness  about 
her  many  faults.  They  both  agreed  on  marriage 
finally  because  they  felt  that  while  they  probably 
would  not  be  entirely  happy  together,  they  would 
assuredly  be  miserable  separate.  Never  was  a 
marriage  entered  upon  with  more  misgivings  on 
both  sides  —  and  yet  there  is  not  the  slightest 
doubt  that  the  love  of  both  was  passionate  and 
sincere.  He  had  loved  her  steadily :  she  had 
swung  around  the  complete  circle  of  emotion,  and 
had  finally  been  drawn  indissolubly  to  him  by  his 
rock-like  constancy.  It  is  Donne's  great  figure  of 
the  compasses,  only  in  this  instance  the  man  is  the 
fijced  foot. 

"If  they  be  two,  they  are  two  so 
As  stiff  twin  compasses  are  two ; 
Thy  soul,  the  fix'd  foot,  makes  no  show 
To  move,  but  doth,  if  th'  other  do. 

And  though  it  in  the  centre  sit, 
Yet,  when  the  other  far  doth  roam, 
It  leans,  and  hearkens  after  it. 
And  grows  erect,  as  that  comes  home." 

In  truth  his  firmness  "made  her  circle  just." 

The  world's  thanks  are  due  to  the  editor  of  these 
two  volumes  for  his  courage  and  wisdom  in  print- 
ing all    the  letters,  for  his  pains  taken  to  ensure 

196 


CARLYLE'S    LOVE-LETTERS 

complete  accuracy,  for  the  excellent  notes,  which 
are  always  clear  and  helpful,  for  the  adequate  illus- 
trations, and  for  the  extremely  valuable  appendices. 
These  contain  the  original  poems  that  passed 
between  the  two,  and  incidentally  give  for  the 
first  time  the  credit  of  the  authorship  of  the  best 
one  to  Carlyle :  it  is  the  one  example  that  has 
always  been  cited  to  prove  that  Mrs.  Carlyle  had 
some  genuine  literary  talent,  and  thus  disappears 
the  last  spark  of  her  purely  literary  fame.  Froude 
receives  a  few  hard  knocks  in  the  Introduction  and 
Notes,  but  we  are  glad  to  see  that  these  volumes 
are  not  intended  as  a  controversial  document; 
interesting  as  this  melancholy  fight  may  be  to  the 
members  of  the  two  families,  the  world  has  almost 
ceased  to  take  any  interest  in  it,  and  will  soon  for- 
get it  entirely;  for  even  the  proverbial  door-nail 
is  not  so  dead  as  an  extinct  literary  controversy. 
The  value  of  this  correspondence  lies  in  its  wonder- 
ful revelation  of  the  hearts  of  a  great  man  and  an 
interesting  woman ;  and  in  the  light  that  it  throws 
on  the  early  growth  and  development  of  Thomas 
Carlyle.  No  one  can  fully  understand  his  position 
in  the  history  of  literature  without  reading  these 
volumes. 

It  is  an  extraordinary  fact  that  Mr.  Craig's 
book  should  have  appeared  synchronously  with  the 
Love-Letters,    for    his    conclusions    are    apparently 

197 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

based  on  a  knowledge  of  their  contents.  His  work 
is  properly  called,  The  Making  of  Carlyle ;  but  it 
might  equally  well  be  entitled,  A  Commentary  on 
the  Love-Letters.  All  things  considered,  it  is  per- 
haps the  fairest  and  most  accurate  account  of  the 
early  years  of  Carlyle's  life  that  has  ever  been 
published,  which  is  certainly  saying  a  good  deal. 
Mr.  Craig  is  no  advocate  for  anybody  or  anything ; 
he  is  interested  in  Carlyle,  and  a  devout  believer 
in  his  genius,  or  he  would  not  take  the  trouble  to 
write  so  big  a  book  about  him ;  but  the  contro- 
versies that  have  risen  over  his  grave  cause  sorrow 
rather  than  anger.  His  references  to  the  Love- 
Letters  are  especially  interesting,  now  that  we  can 
verify  his  conclusions  by  the  actual  published 
originals.  He  says:  "With  her  he  kept  up  an 
incessant  correspondence  which  has  never  yet 
been  published,  if  indeed  in  its  entirety  it  exists." 
Again :  "  Probably  all  the  letters  will  be  published 
some  day,  not  improbably  by  Carlyle's  represent- 
atives under  pressure  of  circumstance."  This  is 
not  a  bad  guess. 

Mr.  Craig  traces  Carlyle's  life,  both  in  its  ex- 
ternal facts  and  in  its  mental  development,  from 
his  birth  in  1795  to  the  year  of  the  publication  of 
the  French  Revolution,  which  made  him  a  famous 
man,  and  marked  the  end  of  his  terrible  struggle 
for  recognition.     The  bitter  years  of  obscurity  are 

198 


CARLYLE'S    LOVE-LETTERS 

perhaps  the  most  interesting  to  study,  for  they 
contain  the  whole  of  the  fight.  It  was  during 
these  years  also  that  his  greatest  book  was  written, 
for  Mr.  Craig  rightly  judges  that  Sartor  Resartus  is 
Carlyle's  masterpiece,  as  well  as  his  spiritual  auto- 
biography. ^^ Sartor  had  proved  that  in  Carlyle 
lay  the  most  original  thinking  force  in  literary 
Britain."  This  sentence  will  probably  find  more 
favourable  judgment  than  the  following,  "  Sartor, 
however,  is  a  book  of  the  Ages,  ranking  alongside 
Job  or  Faust,  a  book  the  world  does  not  receive 
the  like  of  every  century  or  every  millennium," 

Several  important  facts  that  have  been  hitherto 
unnoticed  or  unstressed  are  made  clear  in  this 
volume.  "  Carlyle  never  suffered  extreme  poverty, 
and  never  in  all  his  life  did  he  live  in  very  disagree- 
able situations.  .  .  .  Few  men  have  defied  and 
toiled  and  struggled  and  risen  so  comfortably, 
sunnily,  well-housed  and  circumstanced  as  Thomas 
Carlyle."  This  statement  will  surprise  many,  but 
it  is  abundantly  proved.  Carlyle's  ill-health  was 
actual,  not  imaginary ;  but  the  worst  trait  in  his 
nature  was  his  daily  substitution  of  the  mountain 
for  the  mole-hill.  Many  authors  have  suffered  far 
greater  hardships  than  he,  without  making  one- 
tenth  of  the  pother ;  and  marriage,  which  cures 
many  a  man  of  this  vice  of  complaint,  only  added 
to  Carlyle's;    for  his  wife's  gift  in  this  direction 

199 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

was  even  greater  than  his  own.  The  modest  style 
of  living  of  the  young  couple  was  not  forced  upon 
them  by  Carlyle's  pride,  but  by  necessity ;  Jane 
Welsh  had  no  money,  and  was  no  heiress ;  she  was 
even  poorer  than  he.  This  fact,  the  ignorance  of 
which  has  caused  all  kinds  of  abuse  to  be  heaped 
on  Carlyle's  head,  is  now  clear.  Again,  their  going 
to  Craigenputtock,  so  pathetically  described  by 
Froude,  was  in  reality  the  wisest  and  best  thing 
to  do,  and  no  blame  can  be  given  to  the  husband. 
It  is  true  furthermore  that  Jane  Welsh's  original 
love  affair  with  Irving  had  a  powerful  influence 
upon  the  steps  leading  up  to  the  marriage  with 
Carlyle ;  indeed,  at  the  last  Miss  Welsh  sought 
the  marriage  rather  than  accepted  it.  It  is  certain 
that  Carlyle  could  have  endured  separation  better 
than  she.  Again,  owing  to  Froude's  unfortunate 
although  unintentional  misrepresentations,  the 
world  has  believed  that  Carlyle  destroyed  both 
his  wife's  health  and  his  wife's  religious  belief, 
after  their  marriage;  a  terrible  accusation,  which 
is  false.  It  is  proved  to  be  false  by  the  Love-Letters. 
Miss  Welsh  suffered  from  ill-health  and  racking 
headaches  years  before  she  married  Carlyle,  and 
during  the  whole  period  of  their  courtship ;  her 
health  surely  was  not  broken  down  by  housekeep- 
ing. Nor  did  she  at  any  time  during  the  five  years 
of  their  acquaintance  before  marriage  have  any 
200 


CARLYLE'S    LOVE-LETTERS 

Christian  belief.  Carlyle,  though  he  had  made 
his  peace  with  orthodoxy,  was  much  nearer  Chris- 
tianity than  she  ;  and  his  religious  influence  on  her 
was  never  destructive.  We  now  know  also  that 
the  real  origin  of  Carlyle's  peculiar  style  is  seen  in 
his  Letters.  It  has  been  often  assumed  that  Carlyle 
originally  wrote  in  the  conventional  way,  as  his 
publications  before  Sartor  show :  and  that  later  he 
deliberately  adopted  the  style  known  as  Carlylese. 
This  was  true  in  the  case  of  Walt  Whitman,  whose 
curious  style  was  a  deliberate  after-thought;  but 
Mr.  Craig  shows  that  the  Carlylese  is  in  his  early 
letters,  and  that  the  conventional  style  was  a 
mask,  which  he  threw  ofif  in  Sartor,  and  never 
wore  again. 


20X 


VI 

WHITTIER 

Tuesday,  17  December  1907,  marked  the  one 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  John  Green- 
leaf  Whittier.  It  is  probable  that  his  great  fame 
was  never  greater  than  it  is  to-day ;  it  also  seems 
evident  that  he  is  a  permanent  figure  in  America, 
and  that  his  poetry  forms  a  permanent  contribu- 
tion to  English  literature.  Just  why  this  unedu- 
cated farmer  should  have  become  a  major  poet, 
while  so  many  clever  verse-experts  of  higher 
aesthetic  temperament  remain  distinctly  "  minor," 
constitutes  an  interesting  literary  problem. 

Whittier  was  born  at  East  Haverhill,  Massachu- 
setts, of  old  Yankee  stock.  His  father  was  poor, 
and  the  boy  had  to  work  on  the  farm.  His  school 
education  was  exceedingly  scanty,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  support  himself  during  term-time  by 
manual  labour.  Later  he  taught  at  the  Academy, 
a  (to  him)  detestable  job  ;  then  he  became  a  jour- 
nalist in  various  towns  in  New  England  and  the 
East.  He  fell  in  love  with  a  Hartford  girl,  offered 
his  heart  and  hand,  and  was  rejected.  He  planned 
a  journey  in  the  Far  West,  which  ill-health  caused 
202 


WHITTIER 

him  to  abandon ;  the  same  unpleasant  reason 
forced  him  to  give  up  a  political  career,  for  which 
his  soul  burned  with  ambition.  Under  Garrison's 
influence,  he  became  an  anti-slavery  man,  devoting 
many  of  the  best  years  of  his  life  to  this  unpopular 
cause ;  his  wisdom,  moderation,  and  calmness  in 
the  conflict  finally  bringing  him  sharp  rebukes  from 
the  leader,  to  whom  such  qualities  were  incompre- 
hensible. After  the  war,  he  lived  in  contented 
seclusion,  and  died  at  Hampton  Falls,  New  Hamp- 
shire, on  the  seventh  of  September  1892,  having 
nearly  attained  the  age  of  eighty-five  years. 

He  was  essentially  a  lonely  man.  Romantic  by 
temperament,  susceptible  to  feminine  charms,  and 
exactly  constituted  for  the  happiness  of  love  and 
domestic  life,  he  was  doomed  to  austere  celibacy. 
Filled  with  curiosity  for  distant  places,  and  having 
as  contemporaries  Irving,  who  spent  over  twenty 
years  of  his  life  in  Europe ;  Cooper,  who,  besides 
his  voyages,  lived  abroad  seven  successive  years; 
Bryant,  who  made  six  excursions  to  the  Old  World ; 
Longfellow,  who  knew  Europe  perhaps  better 
than  his  native  land  —  Whittier's  travels  were 
bounded  on  the  north  by  the  limits  of  New  Eng- 
land, on  the  east  by  the  neighbouring  shore,  on 
the  south  by  Washington,  and  on  the  west  by 
Harrisburg.  Brought  up  a  Quaker,  he  was  cut  ofif 
from  the  cheerful  human  activities  of  New  England 

203 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

churches,  the  most  prominent  feature  of  village 
social  life.  The  curse  of  constant  headaches  and 
chronic  insomnia  made  him  almost  a  prisoner,  or, 
as  Barrett  Wendell  phrases  it,  he  was  ''generally- 
troubled  by  that  sort  of  robust  poor  health  which 
frequently  accompanies  total  abstinence."  But 
with  all  these  discouragements,  privations,  and  en- 
forced renunciations,  he  seems  to  have  preserved 
the  temperament  of  a  beautiful  child. 

Whittier  wrote  poetry  from  earliest  youth  up  to 
the  last  moments  of  his  life,  his  excellent  poem  to 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  appearing  about  a  week 
before  his  death.  His  successive  volumes  were  the 
chief  events  in  his  existence.  Now,  if  we  could 
borrow  a  word  from  the  science  of  Mathematics, 
we  might  roughly  divide  poetry  into  two  classes, 
—  Pure  and  Applied.  Pure  poetry  would  be  poetry 
entirely  sufficient  unto  itself ;  it  gives  pleasure 
merely ;  its  final  aim  is  Beauty.  Poets  of  high 
distinction  who  have  successfully  endeavoured  to 
compose  pure  poetry  are  John  Keats  and  Edgar 
Allan  Poe.  Applied  poetry  would  include  instances 
where  the  poet's  art  is  applied  to  some  moral  aim, 
as  the  religious  elevation  of  humanity,  or  something 
still  riore  specific,  like  the  abolition  of  slavery. 
Most  of  Whittier's  productions  come  under  the 
head  of  Applied  Poetry.  He  makes  no  claim  to  be 
either  Poeta  or  Vates.     He  says : 

204 


WHITTIER 

"  Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 

No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies ; 
Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 
Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 

I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seerlike  power  to  show 

The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind; 
To  drop  the  plummet-Une  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 

Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown ; 
A  hate  of  tyranny  intense. 
And  hearty  in  its  vehemence. 

As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own." 

Whittier  would  seem  to  illustrate  Tolstoi's  definition 
of  art ;  if  I  understand  the  Russian  apostle,  he 
maintains  that  Poetry,  Fiction,  and  Drama  should 
be  v^ritten  wholly  under  the  impulse  of  the  religious 
consciousness.  For  this  reason  he  despised  Shake- 
speare, and  regarded  his  own  tracts  as  greater  than 
Anna  Karenina.  Whittier 's  poetic  creed  would 
surely  have  pleased  him. 

To  the  sensation-seeker,  Whittier's  poems  seem 
to  lack  many  of  the  qualities  that  have  brought 
permanent  fame  to  other  writers.  The  eternal 
and  predominant  theme  of  poetry  —  Love-Passion 
—  is  conspicuous  by  its  almost  complete  absence ; 
we  search  in  vain  for  the  salt  of  humour ;   there  is 

205 


ESSAYS   ON    BOOKS 

very  little  internal  struggle;  for,  while  Whittier's 
religious  faith  was  weak  in  dogma,  it  was  strong 
in  assurance ;  the  swift  march  of  his  narrative  is 
often  delayed  by  didactic  impedimenta;  and  his 
imagination  seldom  soars  to  a  thrilling  height. 
Yet  he  unquestionably  belongs  to  the  glorious 
company  of  true  poets. 

In  the  first  place,  he  had  something  which  is  the 
real  foundation  of  Art,  as  it  is  of  Character  — 
absolute  Sincerity.  Both  the  man  and  the  poet 
were  simply  incapable  of  deliberate  falsehood.  His 
best  poems  are  transparent  like  a  mountain  lake. 
The  pure  in  heart  shall  see  God ;  and  they  see  many 
lowly  things  as  well,  for  their  eyes  are  clairvoyant, 
unclouded  by  selfish  desire.  No  taint  of  self-pity 
mars  —  as  it  does  in  Byron  —  Whittier's  poems  of 
Nature.  He  could  not  interpret  Nature  like 
Wordsworth,  but  he  could  accurately  portray  in 
verse  the  things  that  he  saw,  a  rare  gift.  His  pictures 
of  the  New  England  winter  landscape  are  too 
familiar  to  quote ;  but  he  is  something  more  than 
a  snow-poet.  The  very  Genius  of  Summer  is  in 
these  lines  : 

"  Along  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold, 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
206 


WHITTIER 

Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unfelt ;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple  leaf 
With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  moon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighbouring  hUl, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snow-drift  still 
Defied  the  dog-star.    Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers  —  grey  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet-clover,  and  shy  mignonette  — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace." 

Such  passages  class  Whittier  among  our  foremost 
American  poets  of  nature ;  and  they  prove  that  in 
fidelity  to  detail  he  was  as  sincere  artistically  as 
he  was  morally  in  his  attacks  upon  slavery. 

Again,  if  Hawthorne  was,  as  has  been  happily 
said,  the  Ghost  of  New  England,  Whittier  was  its 
Soul.  The  rocky  hillsides  of  the  North  Shore  had 
complete  dominion  over  his  heart.  And  (whether 
we  like  it  or  not)  New  England,  though  narrow 
geographically,  has  always  held  the  intellectual 
and  moral  hegemony  of  America.  There  was  a 
vast  difference  between  the  Yankee  farmer  and  a 
European  peasant.  The  former  owned  the  land 
that  he  tilled,  as  his  fathers  had  before  him.  The 
Yankee  farmers  were  often  poor,  often  uncultured : 
but  they  were  never  servile ;  they  were  kings, 
207 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

recognising  no  superior  but  God.  Whittier  knew 
the  Massachusetts  farmer's  life  as  well  as  any  man 
who  ever  lived :  and  no  one  has  ever  expressed  it 
better  than  he.  His  poetic  realism  is  both  external 
and  internal.  He  gives  us  naively  all  the  details 
of  the  farm,  together  with  the  spirit  of  the  New 
England  home.  Busy  men  in  city  offices,  who  had 
been  born  and  bred  in  the  country,  read  Snow- 
Bound  in  a  golden  glow  of  reminiscence.  The  pic- 
ture is  simply  final  in  its  perfection,  without  and 
within.  Not  only  is  it  perfect  in  outline,  but 
perfect  in  its  expression  of  the  castlelike  security 
and  proud  independence  of  the  Home.  The  right 
word  to  describe  the  inner  meaning  of  this  poem 
is  unfortunately  not  in  the  English  language,  and 
it  is  rather  curious  that  we  must  seek  it  in  the 
French.  The  French,  as  has  been  wearisomely 
pointed  out,  have  no  word  for  home ;  but  we  have 
no  word  that  exactly  expresses  the  significance  of 
foyer.  It  is,  however,  the  real  basis  of  Whittier's 
greatest  poem. 

Finally,  in  the  wide  field  of  Religious  Poetry, 
Whittier  achieved  true  greatness.  Someone  has 
said  that  the  Puritans  represented  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, and  the  Quakers  the  New.  Surely,  no 
religious  sect  in  the  world  has  ever  had  a  finer  his- 
tory in  virtues  of  omission  and  commission  than 
the  Society  of  Friends.  Whittier  is  primarily  a 
208 


WHITTIER 

Christian  poet,  a  child  of  faith.  He  fulfils  one  of 
the  highest  functions  of  the  poet  —  he  not  only 
inspires  us  in  the  midst  of  the  daily  work  and 
drudgery,  but  he  comforts  and  sustains  weary  and 
sore  hearts.  He  followed  the  gleam.  Like  that 
old  Churchman,  George  Herbert,  Whittier's  intense 
piety  did  not  restrict  one  iota  the  bounds  of  his 
immense  charity.  The  same  spirit  that  kept  him 
from  hating  the  slaveholders  made  him  a  genuine 
admirer  of  men  whose  religious  principles  he  could 
not  follow.  His  poem.  The  Eternal  Goodness,  em- 
braces a  larger  number  of  true  Christians  than  the 
Apostles'  Creed.  On  the  more  positive  side,  it  is 
pleasant  to  note  his  manly,  sturdy  defence  of  his 
sect  in  the  verses  called  The  Meeting.  I  have 
always  believed  that  this  particular  poem  was  in- 
spired by  Browning's  Christmas  Eve.  The  definite 
attitude  toward  religious  worship  taken  by  both 
poets  is  precisely  similar.  They  both  cheerfully 
recognise  the  ignorance  and  uncouthness  of  the 
pious  band ;  but  there  each  chose  to  abide,  for 
there  each  thought  he  found  the  largest  measure  of 
sincerity. 

It  is  a  splendid  tribute  to  the  essential  goodness 
of  popular  taste  that  Whittier  has  triumphed  and 
will  triumph  over  all  the  modern  sensational  poets 
who  delight  in  clever  paradoxes,  affected  forms  of 
speech,  and  in  mentioning  the  unmentionable.  The 
p  209 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

"  Complete  Poetical  Works"  of  Whittier  are  aglow 
with  the  divine  fire  of  a  great  Personality  —  a  per- 
sonality whose  influence  makes  for  everything  that 
is  best  in  civilisation,  and  which  had  to  so  high  a 
degree  the  childlike  simplicity  of  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven. 


2IO 


VII 

NOTES  ON  MARK  TWAIN 

One  does  not  naturally  associate  the  names  of 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  (1605-1682)  and  Mark  Twain, 
yet  there  is  a  curious  parallel  between  a  section  of 
the  Religio  Medici  (1642)  and  Some  Rambling  Notes 
of  an  Idle  Excursion,  by  our  American  humorist. 
The  latter  sketch  gives  an  amusing  dialogue  be- 
tween a  profane  old  sea-captain,  Hurricane  Jones, 
and  a  well-known  New  England  clergyman,  who 
figures  in  the  story  as  "  Peters."  The  captain  did 
not  know  that  Peters  was  a  minister,  so  he  under- 
took to  explain  the  Bible  miracles  to  his  passenger, 
and  "  wove  a  glittering  streak  of  profanity  through 
his  garrulous  fabric  that  was  refreshing  to  a  spirit 
weary  of  the  dull  neutralities  of  undecorated 
speech."  In  particular  the  captain  gave  a  delight- 
ful exegesis  of  the  discomfiture  of  the  prophets  of 
Baal  by  Elijah.  The  fact  that  the  captain  called 
Elijah  "Isaac"  is  merely  an  unimportant  detail, 
and  does  not  in  any  way  vitiate  the  value  of  his 
interesting  commentary. 

"  Well,  the  prophets  of  Baal  prayed  along  the  best  they 
knew  how  all  the  afternoon,  and  never  raised  a  spark.     At 

211 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

last,  about  sundown,  they  were  all  tuckered  out,  and  they 
owned  up  and  quit. 

"What  does  Isaac  do,  now?  He  steps  up  and  says  to 
some  friends  of  his,  there,  'Pour  four  barrels  of  water  on 
the  altar  ! '  Everybody  was  astonished,  for  the  other  side 
had  prayed  at  it  dry,  you  know,  and  got  whitewashed. 
They  poured  it  on.  Says  he,  'Heave  on  four  more  barrels.' 
Then  he  says,  'Heave  on  four  more.'  Twelve  barrels,  you 
see,  altogether.  The  water  ran  all  over  the  altar,  and  all 
down  the  sides,  and  filled  up  a  trench  around  it  that  would 
hold  a  couple  of  hogsheads,  — '  measures,'  it  says ;  I  reckon 
it  means  about  a  hogshead.  Some  of  the  people  were 
going  to  put  on  their  things  and  go,  for  they  allowed  he  was 
crazy.  They  didn't  know  Isaac.  Isaac  knelt  down  and 
began  to  pray ;  he  strung  along,  and  strung  along,  about 
the  heathen  in  distant  lands,  and  about  the  sister  churches, 
and  about  the  State  and  the  country  at  large,  and  about 
those  that's  in  authority  in  the  Government,  and  all  the 
usual  program,  you  know,  till  everybody  had  got  tired  and 
gone  to  thinking  about  something  else,  and  then  all  of  a 
sudden,  when  nobody  was  noticing,  he  outs  with  a  match 
and  rakes  it  on  the  under  side  of  his  leg,  and  pff !  up 
the  whole  thing  blazes  like  a  house  afire !  Twelve  barrels 
of  water?  Petroleum,  sir.  Petroleum!  That's  what  it 
was ! " 

"  Petroleum,  captain  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  the  country  was  fuU  of  it.  Isaac  knew  all 
about  that.  You  read  the  Bible.  Don't  you  worry  about 
the  tough  places.  They  ain't  tough  when  you  come  to 
think  them  out  and  throw  light  on  them.  There  ain't  a 
thing  in  the  Bible  but  what  is  true ;  all  you  want  is  to  go 
prayerfully  to  work  and  sipher  out  how't  was  done." 

Now  in  the  nineteenth  section  of  Browne's 
Religio  Medici,  the  author  is  talking  gravely  of  his 

212 


NOTES    ON    MARK    TWAIN 

religious  doubts  and  thinks  that  they  are  whispered 
in  the  ears  of  believers  by  no  less  a  personage  than 
the  devil. 

"  For  our  endeavours  are  not  only  to  combat  with  doubts, 
but  always  to  dispute  with  the  Devil :  the  villany  of  that 
Spirit  takes  a  hint  of  Infidelity  from  our  Studies,  and  by 
demonstrating  a  naturality  in  one  way,  makes  us  mistrust 
a  miracle  in  another.  Thus  having  perused  the  Archidoxes 
and  read  the  secret  Sympathies  of  things,  he  would  disswade 
my  belief  from  the  miracle  of  the  Brazen  Serpent,  make  me 
conceit  that  Image  worked  by  Sympathy,  and  was  but  an 
Egyptian  trick  to  cure  their  Diseases  without  a  miracle. 
Again,  having  seen  some  experiments  of  Bitumen,  and  hav- 
ing read  far  more  of  Naptha,  he  whispered  to  my  curiosity 
the  fire  of  the  Altar  might  be  natural ;  and  bid  me  mistrust 
a  miracle  in  Elias,  when  he  entrenched  the  Altar  round  with 
Water ;  for  that  inflamable  substance  yields  not  easily  unto 
Water,  but  flames  in  the  Arms  of  its  Antagonist." 

Having  observed  this  interesting  parallel,  I 
wrote  to  Mark  Twain  on  the  subject.  I  imme- 
diately received  this  characteristic  reply : 

New  York,  April  24,  igoi. 
I  was  not  aware  that  old  Sir  Thomas  had  anticipated 
that  story,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  furnishing  me 
the  paragraph.  It  is  curious  that  the  same  idea  should 
have  entered  two  heads  so  unlike  as  the  head  of  that  wise 
old  philosopher  and  that  of  Captain  Ned  Wakeman,  a 
splendidly  uncultured  old  saUor,  but  in  his  own  opinion  a 
thinker  by  divine  right.  He  was  an  old  friend  of  mine  of 
many  years'  standing ;  I  made  two  or  three  voyages  with 
him,  and  found  him  a  darling  in  many  ways.  The  petro- 
leum story  was  not  told  to  me ;  he  told  it  to  Joe  Twicbell, 

213 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

who  ran  across  him  by  accident  on  a  sea  voyage  where  I 
think  the  two  were  the  only  passengers.  A  delicious  pair, 
and  admirably  mated,  they  took  to  each  other  at  once  and 
became  as  thick  as  thieves.  Joe  was  passing  under  a  ficti- 
tious name,  and  old  Wakeman  didn't  suspect  that  he  was  a 
parson ;  so  he  gave  his  profanity  full  swing,  and  he  was  a 
master  of  that  great  art.  You  probably  know  Twichell, 
and  will  know  that  that  is  a  kind  of  refreshment  which  he  is 
very  capable  of  enjoying.  Sincerely  yours, 

S.  L.  Clemens. 

Mark  Twain's  first  book,  The  Celebrated  Jumping 
Frog  of  Calaveras  County,  was  published  on  the 
first  of  May  1867.  On  the  very  day  of  its  appear- 
ance in  print,  the  author  wrote  a  highly  interesting 
letter  to  his  friend,  Bret  Harte,  in  which  he  com- 
ments on  the  new  publication,  and  announces  his 
departure  for  the  Old  World.  This  was  the  voyage 
that  made  him  famous,  for  it  resulted  in  the  com- 
position of  Innocents  Abroad,  the  work  that  gave 
him  the  world-wide  reputation  that  he  was  to 
enjoy  for  forty  years.  The  year  1867  marks  also 
the  date  of  Bret  Harte's  first  book,  Condensed 
Novels;  his  great  contribution  to  literature,  The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  had  not  yet  appeared. 
It  is  interesting  to  note  the  signature,  "  Mark," 
for  in  later  years  he  almost  invariably  signed 
his  epistles  with  his  own  name.  It  was  only  a 
short  time  before  this  that  he  had  adopted  the 
pseudonym. 

214 


NOTES    ON    MARK    TWAIN 

Westminster  Hotel,  May  i,  1867. 

Dear  Bret  —  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  inform  you 
that  I  am  well  and  hope  these  few  line  [sic]  will  find  you 
enjoying  the  same  God's  blessing. 

The  book  is  out,  and  is  handsome.  It  is  full  of  damnable 
errors  of  grammar  and  deadly  inconsistencies  of  spelling  in 
the  Frog  sketch  because  I  was  away  and  did  not  read  the 
proofs  —  but  be  a  friend  and  say  nothing  about  these 
things.  When  my  hurry  is  over  I  will  send  you  an  auto- 
graph copy  to  pisen  the  children  with. 

I  am  to  lecture  in  Cooper  Institute  next  Monday  night. 
Pray  for  me. 

We  sail  for  the  Holy  Land  June  8.  Try  and  write  me 
(to  this  hotel),  and  it  will  be  forwarded  to  Paris,  where  we 
remain  10  to  15  days. 

Regards  and  best  wishes  to  Mrs.  Bret  and  the  family. 

Truly  Yr  Friend 

Mark.^ 

On  a  memorable  afternoon  at  Florence,  the 
fourteenth  of  April  1904,  I  had  an  hour's  conver- 
sation with  him  and  his  daughter  Jean.  Her 
sudden  death  five  years  later  was  the  last  terrible 
shock  that  Mark  Twain  had  to  endure  in  the 
steady  tragedy  of  his  old  age.  She  acted  as  her 
father's  secretary,  and  during  the  last  year  of  his 
life,  she,  and  his  biographer,  Mr.  Paine,  made  up 
the  little  family  circle  at  Redding.  In  a  letter  that 
I  received  from  Mark  Twain  only  a  few  weeks 

1  This  autograph  letter,  j^ellow  with  years,  was  kindly  given 
to  me  in  1908,  by  Bret  Harte's  sister,  Mrs.  Wyman,  of  Oakland, 
California. 

215 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

before  his  death,  he  said  of  Jean,  "  I  shall  not  have 
so  dear  and  sweet  a  secretary  again." 

When  I  entered  the  room  in  Florence  where  he 
and  his  daughter  were  sitting,  I  found  him  absorbed 
in  reading  the  latest  news  of  the  Japanese-Russian 
war,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  induce 
him  to  talk  on  any  other  theme.  He  was  a  tre- 
mendous partisan  of  the  Japanese,  and  rejoiced 
greatly  in  their  victories.  "The  real  reason,"  said 
he  dryly,  "  why  the  Russians  are  getting  licked  is 
because  of  their  niggardly  policy.  Look  at  General 
Kurapotkin !  I  read  in  the  papers  that  he  has 
taken  out  with  him  only  eighty  holy  images !  Just 
like  the  Russians !  They  never  make  adequate 
preparation  for  battle.  Why,  eighty  ikons  are  not 
half  enough;  they  ought  to  have  two  or  three  for 
every  private  soldier  if  they  expect  to  beat  those 
clever  Japs.  But  that's  just  the  way  the  Russians 
do  business;  they  are  economical  with  their  holy 
images  when  they  ought  to  order  them  out  by  the 
carload."  I  remarked  that  I  had  just  read  in  the 
New  York  Sun  a  poem  by  Miss  Edith  Thomas,  in 
which  she  hotly  defended  the  Russians  because  they 
were  Christians,  and  earnestly  hoped  that  they 
would  triumph  over  the  heathen  Japanese.  He 
impatiently  replied,  "Edith  doesn't  know  what 
she's  talking  about." 

I  finally  persuaded  him  to  talk  a  little  about 
216 


NOTES    ON    MARK    TWAIN 

himself.  I  asked  him  which  of  all  his  works  he 
thought  was  the  best.  In  Yankee  fashion  he  asked 
which  I  put  first,  and  I  said  Huckleberry  Finn. 
After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  remarked:  "That 
is  undoubtedly  my  best  book."  Then  I  asked  if, 
leaving  aside  the  pleasure  of  artistic  creation,  it 
was  not  a  source  of  great  happiness  to  him  to  think 
that  from  a  river  pilot  on  the  Mississippi  he  had 
risen  to  be  an  honoured  and  welcome  guest  at 
royal  courts,  and  that  this  change  in  his  circum- 
stances had  been  wrought  not  by  the  accidental 
acquisition  of  a  great  fortune  or  by  success  in  war, 
but  wholly  by  the  power  of  his  own  mind.  (For 
from  this  point  of  view  Mark  Twain's  career  is 
unique  in  the  history  of  America.)  He  drawled 
out  very  slowly :  "I  do  look  back  on  my  life  with 
considerable  satisfaction." 

The  truth  about  his  selection  of  the  name  Mark 
Twain  has  appeared  in  print  before,  but  nine  out  of 
every  ten  times  it  is  stated  falsely,  and  has  so  been 
published  since  his  death.  He  did  not  adopt  the 
pen  name  directly  from  his  experience  on  the  river. 
On  this  occasion  he  said : 

"There  was  a  man,  Captain  Isaiah  Sellers,  who  furnished 
river  news  for  the  New  Orleans  Picayune,  still  one  of  the 
best  papers  in  the  South.  He  used  to  sign  his  articles, 
Mark  Twain.  He  died  in  1863  — I  liked  the  name,  and 
stole  it.  I  think  I  have  done  him  no  wrong,  for  I  seem  to 
have  made  this  name  somewhat  generally  known." 

217 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

I  had  seen  Mark  Twain  many  times  since  1876, 
but  this  was  the  first  occasion  when  he  looked  Uke 
an  old  man.  He  was  tormented  with  anxiety 
about  his  wife's  health,  for  he  knew  her  illness  was 
fatal.  The  muscles  in  his  right  cheek  were  beyond 
his  control,  twitching  constantly  during  the  hour 
I  spent  with  him,  and  there  was  something  wrong 
with  his  right  eye.  He  had  not,  however,  cut 
short  his  allowance  of  tobacco,  for  he  smoked 
three  cigars  during  the  conversation. 

If  necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention,  misfor- 
tune is  the  mother  of  literature.  When  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  was  ejected  from  the  Custom-House  at 
Salem,  he  went  home  in  a  despondent  frame  of 
mind,  only  to  be  greeted  by  his  wonderful  wife's 
pertinent  remark,  "Now  you  can  write  your 
book."  He  responded  to  this  stimulus  by  writing 
the  best  book  ever  written  in  the  Western  Hemi- 
sphere, The  Scarlet  Letter.  We  learn  from  a  famous 
chapter  in  Roughing  It  that  if  Samuel  L.  Clemens 
had  not  gone  to  help  a  sick  friend,  or  if  his  partner 
had  received  the  note  he  left  for  him  before  start- 
ing on  this  charitable  expedition,  Samuel  L. 
Clemens  would  have  been  a  millionnaire.  This 
episode  has  since  his  death  been  printed  in  a  list 
of  the  misfortunes  that  marked  his  romantic  and 
tragic  career.  But  if  at  that  time  Mr.  Clemens 
218 


NOTES    ON    MARK    TWAIN 

had  become  a  millionnaire,  and  he  missed  it  by  the 
narrowest  possible  margin,  he  never  would  have 
become  Mark  Twain.  He  struggled  against  his 
destiny  with  all  the  physical  and  mental  force  he 
possessed.  He  tried  to  make  a  living  by  every 
means  except  literature,  and  nothing  but  steady 
misfortune  and  dire  necessity  made  him  walk  in 
the  foreordained  path.  Mark  Twain  always  re- 
garded himself  as  the  plaything  of  chance ;  profess- 
ing no  belief  in  God,  he  never  thanked  Him  for  his 
amazing  successes,  nor  rebelled  against  Him  for 
his  sufferings.  But  if  ever  there  was  a  man  whose 
times  were  in  His  hand,  that  man  was  Mark  Twain. 
Mark  Twain  was  a  greater  artist  than  he  was 
humorist ;  a  greater  humorist  than  he  was  philoso- 
pher; a  greater  philosopher  than  he  was  thinker. 
Goethe's  well-known  remark  about  Byron,  "The 
moment  he  thinks,  he  is  a  child,"  would  in  some 
respects  be  applicable  to  Mark  Twain.  The  least 
valuable  part  of  his  work  is  found  among  his  efforts 
to  rewrite  history,  his  critical  essays  on  men  and 
on  institutions,  and  his  contributions  to  intro- 
spective thought.  His  long  book  on  Joan  of  Arc 
is  valuable  only  for  its  style ;  his  short  book  on  the 
Shakespeare-Bacon  controversy  shows  appalling  ig- 
norance ;  his  defence  of  Harriet  Shelley  is  praise- 
worthy only  in  its  chivalry ;  his  attack  on  Fenimore 
Cooper  is  of  no  consequence  except  as  a  humorous 
219 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

document;  his  laboured  volume  on  Christian 
Science  has  little  significance  ;  and  when  his  post- 
humous essay  on  the  "Meaning  of  Life"  is  pub- 
lished, as  I  am  afraid  it  will  be  before  long,  it  will 
surprise  and  depress  more  readers  than  it  will 
convince. 

As  a  philosopher,  Mark  Twain  was  a  pessimist 
as  to  the  value  of  the  individual  life  and  an  opti- 
mist concerning  human  progress.  He  agreed  with 
Schopenhauer  that  non-existence  was  preferable  to 
existence ;  that  sorrow  was  out  of  all  proportion 
to  happiness.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  nothing 
of  Carlyle's  peculiar  pessimism,  who  regarded  the 
human  soul  as  something  noble  and  divine,  but 
insisted  that  modern  progress  was  entirely  in  the 
wrong  direction,  and  that  things  in  general  were 
steadily  growing  worse.  Carlyle  believed  in  God 
and  man,  but  he  hated  democracy  as  a  political 
principle;  Mark  Twain  apparently  believed  in 
neither  God  nor  man,  but  his  faith  in  democracy 
was  so  great  that  he  almost  made  a  religion  out  of  it. 
He  was  never  tired  of  exposing  the  tyranny  of 
superstition  and  of  unmasking  the  romantic 
splendour  of  mediaeval  life. 

Mark  Twain  was  one  of  the  foremost  humorists 
of  modern  times ;  and  there  are  not  wanting  good 
critics  who  already  dare  to  place  him  with  Rabelais, 
Cervantes,    and    Moliere.     Others    would    regard 

220 


NOTES    ON    MARK    TWAIN 

such  an  estimate  as  mere  hyperbole,  born  of 
transient  enthusiasm.  But  we  all  know  now  that 
he  was  more  than  a  funmaker ;  we  know  that  his 
humour,  while  purely  American,  had  the  note  of 
universality.  He  tested  historical  institutions,  the 
social  life  of  past  ages,  political  and  religious 
creeds,  and  the  future  abode  of  the  saints  by  the 
practical  touchstone  of  humour.  Nothing  sharpens 
the  eyes  of  a  traveller  more  than  a  sense  of  humour ; 
nothing  enables  him  better  to  make  the  subse- 
quent story  of  his  journey  pictorially  impressive. 
The  Innocents  Abroad  is  a  great  book,  because  it 
represents  the  wonders  of  Europe  as  seen  by  an 
unawed  Philistine  with  no  background ;  he  has 
his  limitations,  but  at  any  rate  his  opinions  of 
things  are  formed  after  he  sees  them,  and  not 
before.  He  looks  with  his  own  eyes,  not  through 
the  coloured  spectacles  of  convention.  Roughing 
It  is  a  still  greater  book,  because  in  the  writing 
of  that  no  background  was  necessary,  no  limita- 
tions are  felt ;  we  know  that  his  testimony  is  true. 
The  humour  of  Mark  Twain  is  American  in  its 
point  of  view,  in  its  love  of  the  incongruous,  in 
its  fondness  for  colossal  exaggeration ;  but  it  is 
universal  in  that  it  deals  not  with  passing  phenom- 
ena, or  with  matters  of  temporary  interest,  but 
with  essential  and  permanent  aspects  of  human 
nature. 

221 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

As  an  artist  Mark  Twain  already  seems  great. 
The  funniest  man  in  the  world,  he  was  at  the 
same  time  a  profoundly  serious  artist,  a  faithful 
servant  of  his  literary  ideals.  The  environment, 
the  characterisation,  and  the  humanity  in  Tom 
Sawyer  remind  us  of  the  great  novelists,  whose 
characters  remain  in  our  memory  as  sharply  defined 
individuals  simply  because  they  have  the  touch 
of  nature  that  makes  the  whole  world  kin.  In 
other  words,  Tom  Sawyer  resembles  the  master- 
pieces of  fiction  in  being  intensely  local  and  at 
the  same  time  universal.  Tom  Sawyer  is  a  definite 
personality;  but  he  is  also  eternal  boyhood.  In 
Huckleberry  Finn  we  have  three  characters  who 
are  so  different  that  they  live  in  different  worlds, 
and  really  speak  different  languages,  Tom,  Huck, 
and  Jim ;  we  have  an  amazingly  clear  presentation 
of  life  in  the  days  of  slavery ;  we  have  a  marvel- 
lous moving  picture  of  the  Father  of  Waters ;  but, 
above  aU,  we  have  a  vital  drama  of  humanity,  in 
its  nobility  and  baseness,  its  strength  and  weak- 
ness, its  love  of  truth  and  its  love  of  fraud,  its 
utter  pathos  and  its  side-splitting  mirth.  Like 
nearly  all  faithful  pictures  of  the  world,  it  is  a  vast 
tragi-comedy.  What  does  it  matter  if  our  great 
American  had  his  limitations  and  his  excrescences  ? 
To  borrow  his  own  phrase,  ''There  is  that  about 
the  sun  that  makes  us  forget  his  spots." 

222 


vm 

MARLOWE  1 

Biographical  accounts  of  Marlowe  resemble 
those  of  all  other  Elizabethan  dramatists  in  con- 
taining two  grains  of  fact  in  a  bushel  of  conjecture. 
Had  Ben  Jonson's  library  not  been  burned,  or  had 
Thomas  Heywood  spent  the  time  on  his  projected 
Lives  of  the  Poets  that  he  squandered  on  the  Hier- 
archy of  the  Blessed  Angels,  we  should  probably 
know  for  certain  many  things  that  remain  shrouded 
in  complete  darkness.  Nothing  in  literary  history 
is  more  depressing  to  contemplate  than  the  mis- 
directed energy  of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries; 
they  produced  huge  folios  on  impossible  themes. 
Had  any  one  of  them  spent  a  half-holiday,  in  their 
busy  years  of  quill-driving,  in  narrating  the  simple 
facts  of  Shakespeare's  career,  those  few  sheets 
would  have  outweighed  in  interest  for  us  tons  of 
the  controversial,  scholastic,  and  theological  stuff 
that  they  built  with  so  much  toil.  Heywood's  alert 
and  inquisitive  mind  seems  to  have  had  some  notion 
of  the  future  importance  of  such  a  book,  for  he 

^  Introduction  to  Christopher  Marlowe  in  Masterpieces  of  Eng- 
lish Drama.  Copyright,  191 2,  by  American  Book  Company. 
Used  by  kind  permission  of  the  publishers. 

223 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

said  positively  that  it  was  his  intention  to  produce 
a  biographical  history  of  the  poets,  ancient  and 
modern,  including  all  his  contemporaries.  But 
although  he  wrote  over  two  hundred  plays,  and 
scores  of  other  volumes,  this  particular  one  became 
valuable  only  as  a  paving-stone  in  an  oft-mentioned 
place. 

Of  the  actual  facts  in  Marlowe's  life  we  know 
little  except  that  he  was  born  in  Canterbury  in 
February  1564,  that  he  studied  at  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity (if  the  "Marlin"  and  "Chrof.  Marlen"  on 
the  books  there  be  the  dramatist),  and  that  he  was 
killed  by  a  person  named  Francis  Archer,  and  buried 
at  Deptford,  i  June  1593.  Nothing  whatever  is 
known  of  his  personal  appearance.  We  cannot 
even  prove  that  he  wrote  Tamburlaine;  the  external 
evidence  is  astonishingly  small.  We  have  to  as- 
sume it  on  the  basis  of  a  variety  of  contemporary 
references.  We  do  not  know  whether  or  not  he 
wrote  any  part  of  the  early  historical  plays  usually 
included  in  Shakespeare's  works.  We  can  form 
no  idea  of  how  many  interpolations  there  may 
have  been  in  the  four  plays  on  which  his  fame  as 
a  dramatist  rests.  Nor  do  we  know  for  certain 
when  a  single  one  of  these  four  dramas  was  com- 
posed or  first  acted ;  so  that  all  the  vast  theories 
that  have  been  erected  on  their  chronological  place 
in  the  Elizabethan  drama  rest  upon  guess-work. 
224 


MARLOWE 

Besides  the  four  chief  plays,  two  others  bearing 
Marlowe's  name  may  receive  passing  mention, 
though  as  pieces  of  literature  they  are  unimportant. 
On  3  January  1593,  while  Marlowe  was  still 
living,  The  Massacre  at  Paris  was  put  on  the 
boards;  this  was  published  somewhat  later,  but 
there  being  no  date  on  the  title-page  of  what  is 
apparently  the  earliest  edition,  the  year  of  its 
first  appearance  in  print  is  not  known.  This  title- 
page,  however,  bears  the  legend,  "  Written  by 
Christopher  Marlowe."  That  is  the  only  line  in 
the  whole  volume  of  any  real  interest.  Another 
play,  The  Tragedy  of  Dido,  Queen  of  Carthage,  was 
published  in  quarto  form  so  early  as  1594,  and  on 
the  title-page  appeared  "Written  by  Christopher 
Marlowe  and  Thomas  Nashe,  Gent."  This  drama 
contains  some  verses  here  and  there  that  seem 
like  faint  echoes  of  the  mighty  line ;  but  it  also 
includes  gems  of  poetry  such  as 

"  Gentle  Achates,  reach  the  tinder-box," 

which  we  may  hope  supplied  some  of  the  fire  lack- 
ing in  the  verse. 

Marlowe  wrote  narrative  and  lyric  poetry  as  well 
as  dramatic.  His  translations  from  the  Latin  are 
worthless ;  but  his  splendid  fragment,  Hero  and 
Leander  (entered  on  the  Stationers'  Books,  28 
September    1593,    and    published    in    1598)    in- 

Q  22$ 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

dicates  a  high  order  of  creative  genius.  It  is 
one  of  the  most  notable  expressions  of  the  Pagan 
Renaissance  in  England.  The  dramatist  Chap- 
man completed  it,  and  although  his  part  of  the 
work  is  much  finer  than  ordinary  post  mortem 
conclusions,  it  naturally  suffers  by  comparison 
with  the  early  portion.  Out  of  the  thousands  of 
beautiful  lyrical  poems  produced  by  the  Eliza- 
bethans, Marlowe's  exquisite  Passionate  Shepherd 
to  His  Love,  commencing, 

"  Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love," 

is  one  of  the  very  best,  and  many  readers  from  that 
time  to  this  have  known  it  by  heart.  The  thrilling 
music  of  those  spacious  times  is  enchantingly 
heard  in  the  splendid  line, 

"Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals." 

Although  the  author  of  Tamburlaine  the  Great  * 
must  apparently  share  with  Thomas  Kyd  some  of 
the  glory  of  discovering  the  possibihties  of  dra- 
matic blank  verse  and  of  founding  the  English 
romantic  drama,  still  the  appearance  of  this  play 
is  one  of  the  most  important  events  in  the  literary 
history  of  the  English-speaking  race.  It  is  not 
going  too  far  to  say  that  "  it  worked  a  revolution 
in  English  dramatic  art."     The  irrepressible  con- 

^The  first  and  second  parts  were  each  pubHshed  in  1590. 
226 


MARLOWE 

flict  between  the  rules  of  the  classicists  and  the 
freedom  of  the  romanticists  was  permanently 
settled  by  Tamburlaine.  He  conquered  the  Eliza- 
bethan stage  as  in  real  life  he  conquered  the 
world.  The  authority  of  Seneca,  the  learning  of 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  and  his  friends,  the  precedent  of 
Gorboduc,  were  all  overthrown  by  the  colossal 
figure  of  the  barbarian  chieftain  and  the  glorious 
poetry  he  uttered.  At  one  blow  the  shackles  of 
pseudo-classicism  and  vain  pedantry  were  struck 
off ;  it  took  a  Samson  to  do  it,  but  he  was  at  home. 
It  is  within  the  limits  of  truth  to  say  that  the 
course  of  Elizabethan  drama,  the  greatest  part  of 
the  greatest  period  of  the  greatest  literature  of  the 
world,  was  determined  more  by  Tamburlaine  than 
by  any  other  single  cause.  And,  unlike  most 
literary  beginnings,  which  are  unconscious,  the 
author  of  Tamburlaine  was  himself  aware  of  the 
importance  of  his  achievement  —  he  knew  what 
he  was  about.  Like  Milton  in  the  Preface  to  Para- 
dise Lost,  like  Jonson  in  the  Prologue  to  Every 
Man  in  his  Humour,  like  Victor  Hugo  in  Cromwell 
and  Hernani,  the  poet  appeared  with  a  definite  pro- 
gramme. Shakespeare  was  no  innovator ;  he  was 
content  to  do  everything  better  than  anybody  else, 
and  let  his  creations  speak  for  themselves.  Not 
so  the  maker  of  Tamburlaine.  His  prologue  is  a 
shout  of  defiance. 

227 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

"From  jigging  veins  of  rhyming  mother  wits, 
And  such  conceits  as  clownage  keeps  in  pay, 
We'll  lead  you  to  the  stately  tent  of  war, 
Where  you  shall  hear  the  Scythian  Tamburlaine 
Threatening  the  world  with  high  astounding  terms, 
And  scourging  kingdoms  with  his  conquering  sword. 
View  but  his  picture  in  this  tragic  glass, 
And  then  applaud  his  fortune  as  you  please." 

Here  is  a  definite  and  uncompromising  attack 
on  rime  as  a  vehicle  of  dramatic  expression :  a 
crack  of  the  whip  at  professional  buffoonery,  so 
dear  to  Elizabethan  spectators,  and  so  despised  by 
the  poets ;  and  a  contemptuous  blow  in  the  face 
to  the  public,  whose  attitude  toward  the  piece  is 
utterly  indifferent  to  the  author,  for  it  was  written 
to  please  no  one  but  himself. 

Courage  and  conviction,  backed  by  genius,  had 
their  natural  reward.  The  first  matinee  of  Tam- 
burlaine was  an  epoch-making  day.  The  character 
of  the  Scourge  of  God,  as  portrayed  by  the  great 
actor  Edward  Alleyn,  himself  a  man  of  colossal 
size  and  great  histrionic  ability,  fairly  dazzled  the 
Elizabethans.  We  must  always  remember  that 
people  then  went  to  the  theatre  not  to  see,  but  to 
hear ;  stage  scenery  and  settings  were  scanty ;  the 
play  was  the  thing.  Mouthed  in  sonorous  Eliza- 
bethan fashion,  this  new  and  magnificent  blank 
verse  charmed  and  electrified  the  Elizabethans  like 
marvellous  music. 

228 


MARLOWE 

Blank  verse  had  been  introduced  into  English 
poetry  by  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  who,  about  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  translated  two 
books  of  the  ^neid  in  this  measure.  But  Surrey's 
style  was  naturally  rough  and  halting;  and  a 
perusal  of  his  work  gives  little  idea  of  what  possi- 
bilities lay  in  this  instrument.  The  stiff  Senecan 
tragedy  Gorhoduc  (acted  about  1561)  was  written 
in  blank  verse  of  monotonous  rigidity;  it  chilled 
rather  than  charmed.  The  playwrights  who  im- 
mediately preceded  Marlowe  failed  in  the  one 
thing  in  which  he  most  emphatically  succeeded ; 
namely,  expression.  They  could  conceive  dramatic 
situations,  but  the  language  accompanying  the 
supreme  moment  was  usually  entirely  inadequate, 
and  often  pitiably  weak.  Marlowe's  characters 
and  events  required  a  "  great  and  thundering 
speech";  and,  needless  to  say,  it  was  plentifully 
supplied.  It  thundered  indeed  so  loudly  that  some 
contemporaries  laughed  it  to  scorn,  but  their 
laughter  has  the  discordant  tone  of  envy  rather 
than  the  ring  of  sincerity.  In  the  Preface  to 
Greene's  Menaphon,  Nash  remarked,  "Idiot  arts- 
masters,  that  intrude  themselves  to  our  ears  as  the 
alchemists  of  eloquence;  who  (mounted  on  the 
stage  of  arrogance)  think  to  outbrave  better  pens 
with  the  swelling  bombast  of  a  bragging  blank 
verse."     And  again,  he  alludes  to  what  he  calls 

229 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

"  the  spacious  volubility  of  a  drumming  decasylla- 
bon."  Greene,  who  sneered  at  Marlowe  as  a 
"  cobbler's  eldest  son,"  said  with  swelling  blank 
verse  we  should  not  dare  "  God  out  of  heaven  with 
that  atheist  Tamburlan.''  Ben  Jonson  said  the 
play  had  nothing  in  it  "  but  the  scenical  strutting 
and  furious  vociferation  to  warrant  [it]  to  the 
ignorant  gapers." 

Tamhurlaine  was  peculiarly  Elizabethan  in  tone, 
and  it  is  not  at  all  surprising  to  find  that  in  Resto- 
ration days  it  had  passed  almost  into  oblivion, 
Charles  Saunders,  in  a  Preface  to  the  play  Tamer- 
lane in  1681,  wrote:  "It  hath  been  told  me  there 
is  a  Cockpit  play  going  under  the  name  of  The 
Scythian  Shepherd,  or  Tamhurlaine  the  Great,  which 
how  good  it  is,  any  one  may  judge  by  its  obscurity, 
being  a  thing  not  a  bookseller  in  London,  or  scarce 
the  players  themselves  who  acted  it  formerly, 
could  call  to  remembrance." 

Tamhurlaine  was  a  real  character  in  history, 
whose  actual  achievements  sound  like  a  wild 
romance.  Timur,  called  Timur  Lenk  (that  is, 
Timur  the  Lame),  Tamerlane,  or  Tamhurlaine,  was 
an  Asiatic  Napoleon  of  the  fourteenth  century. 
He  was  born  in  1333  in  Central  Asia,  and  for  some 
time  was  merely  the  chief  of  a  petty  tribe.  But  he 
finally  overran  and  subdued  an  enormous  stretch 
of  territory,  extending  from  the  Chinese  Wall  to 

230 


MARLOWE 

the  Mediterranean  Sea,  and  from  Siberia  to  the 
Ganges.  His  cruelty  was  as  notable  as  his  genius, 
though  not  so  uncommon.  He  is  said  to  have 
built  a  pyramid  constructed  entirely  of  the  heads 
of  his  foes.  He  died  in  1405,  and  his  empire  went 
to  pieces.  In  1543,  a  Spanish  biography  of  him 
appeared  at  Seville,  composed  by  Pedro  Mexia. 
This  book  had  great  vogue,  and  was  translated 
into  various  European  languages.  The  Enghsh 
version  was  printed  in  1571,  and  it  is  extremely 
probable  that  it  is  the  chief  source  of  the  drama 
Tamburlaine.  The  details  are  largely  the  same; 
the  cage,  the  crumbs  of  bread,  the  scraps  of  meat, 
and  the  title,  Scourge  of  God,  are  all  in  the  original. 
It  is  difficult  to  speak  calmly  of  this  tremendous 
ten-act  tragedy.  If  its  author  exceeded  all  bounds 
of  restraint,  the  critics  from  that  day  to  this  have 
unconsciously  followed  his  example.  To  some  it  is 
wisdom,  to  others  foolishness ;  but  both  those  who 
condemn  and  those  who  praise  have  drawn  heavily 
on  their  stock  of  adjectives.  Lamb  did  not  take  it 
seriously ;  but  Swinburne  in  writing  of  it  had  one 
of  his  frequent  fits  of  ecstasy.  The  play,  of  course, 
shows  no  regard  for  dramatic  structure.  There  is 
no  development,  either  of  plot  or  of  character ; 
there  might  as  well  have  been  a  hundred  acts  as 
ten.  As  some  one  has  said  of  Hauptmann,  the 
play  does  not  end,  it  quits. 

231 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

But  the  salient  virtue  of  this  drama,  apart  from 
its  superb  diction,  is  that  we  have,  for  the  first 
time  in  English  tragedy,  one  grand,  consistent,  un- 
forgettable character.  We  do  not  ask  of  romantic 
heroes,  either  in  Cooper  or  in  Shakespeare,  that 
they  shall  resemble  actual  life.  All  we  demand  is 
that  they  make  a  permanent  impression  on  the 
imagination.  This  Tamburlaine  assuredly  does. 
No  one  who  has  ever  once  read  the  play  can  by 
any  possibility  forget  the  protagonist.  He  is  the 
incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  aspiration  —  the  spirit 
of  Marlowe,  and  the  spirit  of  the  Elizabethan  age. 
He  revels  in  the  intoxication  of  boundless  power. 
His  swelling  confidence  hypnotises  his  friends,  and 
paralyses  his  enemies.  His  most  bitter  foes  feel 
the  resistless  fascination  of  the  man.  Some  of  the 
best  things  said  about  him  are  uttered  by  his  an- 
tagonists. Tamburlaine  trusts  no  earthly  or  divine 
agent;   his  God  is  himself. 

His  passionate  love  for  Zenocrate  is  perfectly 
natural,  and  not  in  the  least  inconsistent.  His  wild 
pagan  nature  has  its  one  ideal  side  —  Beauty.  Of 
beauty  in  the  abstract  he  speaks  in  language  too 
familiar  to  quote,  but  which  Shelley  or  Keats 
might  have  envied.  Now  beauty  in  the  concrete, 
beauty  incarnate,  appears  in  the  fair  person  of 
Zenocrate,  and  the  strong  man  worships.  Their 
marriage  is  an  ideal  union,  strength  and  beauty; 

232 


MARLOWE 

and  it  is  easy  to  understand  how  Zenocrate  falls 
under  the  spell  of  the  man's  dominant  power,  and 
returns  his  love  with  constant  devotion. 

There  is  no  real  humour  in  the  drama,  but  there 
is  terrible  irony.  Tamburlaine  treats  his  victims 
as  the  cat  handles  the  mouse.  His  mock  courtesy 
is  more  awful  than  his  positive  cruelty.  But  there 
is  a  far  deeper  irony  than  this,  and  it  is  here  that 
the  drama  ceases  to  be  merely  a  resplendent  ro- 
mance; at  this  point  it  reaches  the  very  basis  of 
human  tragedy,  for  it  represents  nothing  less  than 
the  irony  of  life.  So  far  as  I  know,  this  appears 
here  for  the  first  time  in  English  drama.  Some 
one  has  defined  happiness  as  "  freedom  from  limi- 
tations." Tamburlaine,  drunken  with  success, 
believes  that  he  has  attained  this  liberty.  The 
death  of  Zenocrate  bewilders  as  much  as  it  grieves 
him.  And  finally  he,  too,  must  yield  to  a  foe 
stronger  than  himself.  The  advance  of  death  is  a 
tremendous  shock  to  his  aspiring  heart ;  and  he 
realises,  as  other  conquerors  have  realised,  that 
instead  of  controlling  fate,  he  is  its  plaything. 
Death  is  the  only  "  check  to  egotism." 

The  passion  of  this  play  sweeps  the  reader  along 
with  it  now,  much  as  it  did  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. Some  one  has  compared  the  perusal  of  it  to 
a  debauch  of  mental  passion,  leaving  the  reader 
weak  and  exhausted.     It  was  written  hot  from 

233 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

the  brain,  and  is  evidently  full  of  those  magnificent 
impromptus  so  frequent  in  Shakespeare.  The  late 
Richard  Holt  Hutton  used  to  speak  of  the  "  sud- 
den solemnising  power"  of  Browning  —  how  after 
a  long  pedestrian  passage,  suddenly,  without  any 
approach  to  it,  without  any  warning  or  premonition 
to  the  reader,  the  great  poet  irresistibly  carries  us 
off  into  the  ether.  Such  power  is  also  peculiarly 
characteristic  of  the  author  of  Tamburlaine.  In 
the  midst  of  sheer  nonsense  or  vain  bombast 
comes  a  passage  that  salutes  our  ears  with  strains 
divine. 

In  Elizabethan  times,  England  knew  France, 
Italy,  and  Spain  very  well.  But  Germany  was  an 
undiscovered  country.^  The  Enghsh  of  1540  and 
the  English  of  1590  looked  at  Germany  from  widely 
different  view-points.  In  the  early  part  of  the 
century,  the  great  German  name  was  Luther,  and 
the  word  Germany  signified  Protestantism.  Then 
as  the  influence  of  the  Renaissance  grew  and  pre- 
vailed (and  it  should  never  be  forgotten  that  the 
Renaissance  was  pagan,  both  in  spirit  and  in 
power)  and  as  England  grew  in  military  greatness 
and  began  to  triumph  on  land  and  sea,  Germany 
rather  lost  its  religious  significance,  and  assumed 

*  The  next  few  paragraphs  owe  much  to  Professor  C.  H.  Her- 
ford's  admirable  book,  Studies  in  the  Literary  Relations  of  Eng- 
land and  Germany  (1886).  This  is  a  model  of  what  such  a  work 
should  be. 

234 


MARLOWE 

a  new  and  literary  interest  unlike  anything  it  had 
possessed  before. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  century,  the  word  that 
Germany  expressed  in  England  was  mystery; 
partly  because  it  was  so  little  known,  partly  be- 
cause it  had  produced  famous  physicians  who  had 
become  already  legendary  figures,  —  Paracelsus, 
Faust,  and  others.  To  the  Elizabethan  dramatists 
Germany  came  to  be  necessarily  associated  with 
magic.  For  news  of  alchemy,  astrology,  sorcery, 
and  all  specimens  of  the  black  art,  Englishmen 
naturally  looked  toward  Germany.  A  twilight  air 
of  mystery  enveloped  the  region  of  the  Rhine. 

Meanwhile  England  in  a  certain  degree  lost  the 
respect  she  had  entertained  for  German  Protes- 
tantism, for  England  was  now  the  great  champion 
of  the  Reform ;  and  in  civilisation,  colonial  reach, 
political,  naval,  and  military  power  England  felt 
herself  to  be  the  superior  to  her  Teutonic  neigh- 
bour. Travellers,  statesmen,  and  serious  students 
rather  neglected  Germany,  and  devoted  themselves 
to  France  and  Italy,  where  they  thought  to  learn 
something.  Thus  actual  political  events  in  Ger- 
many do  not  appear  in  the  Elizabethan  drama  with 
anything  like  the  frequency  of  French. 

The  literary  interest  taken  in  Germany  was  of  a 
different  order,  and  proved  to  be  fruitful.  Strange 
and    startling   tales   came   over   the   North   Sea. 

235 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

These  were  often  made  into  "  news-sheets"  by  en- 
terprising journalists,  and  in  this  fashion  hawked 
about  the  streets  of  London.  Fantastic  enough 
some  of  these  sounded.  Mr.  Herford  gives  a 
number  of  illustrations : 

A  Bloody  Tragedy  Acted  by  Five  Jesuits  on 
Sixteen  Young  German  Frows.     1607. 

Account  of  Executions  of  Two  Hundred  and  Fifty 
Witches. 

Strange  Sight  of  the  Sun  and  the  Elements  at 
Basel.     1566-67. 

History  of  a  Fasting  Girl. 

True  Discourse  of  One  Stubbe  Peter,  a  Most 
Wicked  Sorcerer,  who  in  Likeness  of  a  Wolf  Com- 
mitted Many  Murders.     1590. 

These  are  fair  examples,  and  we  see  that  they 
are  somewhat  similar  to  the  subjects  of  exploit  in 
yellow  journalism  of  the  twentieth  century. 

But  the  single  greatest  contribution  that  Ger- 
many made  to  literary  England  at  this  time  — 
how  great  no  one  then  dreamed  —  was  the  legend 
of  Faust.  Dr.  John  Faust  was  a  real  person,  who 
flourished  in  the  same  century  as  Marlowe.  He 
was  a  rather  cheap  medical  quack,  who  lived  about 
1530.  Strange  stories  grew  about  him,  and  after 
his  death  they  rolled  along  with  the  cumulative 
power  of  a  snow-ball. 

The  relation  between  Marlowe's  play,  The 
236 


MARLOWE 

Tragical  History  of  Doctor  Faustus,  and  its  original 
source,  is  full  of  unsolved  and  apparently  insolu- 
ble problems.  The  drama  was  not  entered  on  the 
Stationers'  Books  till  1601,  and  the  first  known 
edition  is  dated  1604,  with  the  inscription  on  the 
title-page:  "Written  by  Ch.  Marl."  But  this 
was  eleven  years  after  Marlowe's  death.  Now 
the  story  of  Faust  had  not  appeared  in  book  form 
until  1587,  when  was  published  in  Germany  the 
so-called  Faustbuch,  which  seems  to  be  the  source 
of  Marlowe's  play.  The  first  known  edition  of  an 
English  translation  is  in  1592,  although  that  date 
on  the  title-page  may  mean  1591.  It  is  assumed 
that  Marlowe's  play  was  acted  in  1588  or  1589; 
but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  nobody  knows.  It  is  also 
assumed  that  Marlowe  knew  no  German,  and  there- 
fore founded  his  play  on  the  English  translation  of 
the  Faustbuch ;  and  in  order  to  account  for  this 
many  scholars  further  assume  that  there  was  an 
earlier  edition  of  the  English  translation,  and  that 
this  earlier  edition  appeared  shortly  after  1587  and 
is  now  lost.  If  we  possessed  this  unknown  book, 
and  possessed  also  some  definite  knowledge  as  to  the 
first  performance  of  the  English  play,  we  should  be 
within  the  limits  of  knowledge  instead  of  in  the  fog  of 
conjecture.  The  "earliest  known  reference"  to  the 
presentation  of  the  play  occurs  in  Henslowe,  by 
which  we  learn  that  it  was  acted  30  September  1594. 

237 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

But  whether  the  date  of  the  composition  of  Mar- 
lowe's Faustus  be  1589  or  1592,  he  has  the  immense 
credit  of  having  produced  the  first  play  in  any  lan- 
guage on  this  immortal  theme ;  and  the  short  time 
(whatever  theory  we  adopt)  that  intervened  be- 
tween the  appearance  of  the  Fausthuch  in  Germany 
and  the  play  in  England  is  nothing  less  than  re- 
markable. Marlowe  must  have  instantly  perceived 
the  splendid  dramatic  possibilities  of  the  story,  for 
he  made  out  of  them,  notwithstanding  all  the  crudi- 
ties and  blemishes,  a  dramatic  masterpiece. 

It  is  not  at  all  fair  to  Marlowe  to  compare  the  im- 
perfect text  of  his  hastily  composed  Faustus  with  the 
Faust  of  Goethe.  The  former  was  written  by  a 
young  man  with  scarcely  any  literary  background. 
Goethe  had  all  the  leisure  of  ease  and  mature  years, 
with  two  centuries  of  culture  behind  him.  After  all, 
Marlowe's  character  of  Faustus  is  essentially  child- 
ish ;  he  longs  for  magic  power,  like  a  boy  who  has 
read  the  Arabian  Nights.  Goethe's  hero  longs  for 
life,  which  he  has  missed,  life  with  all  its  variety  of 
experience.  And  into  his  mouth  Goethe  put  the 
thoughts  of  one  of  the  greatest  literary  geniuses  that 
the  world  has  seen  since  the  death  of  Shakespeare. 
The  qualities  that  win  our  admiration  and  respect 
for  Marlowe's  drama  are  the  thrilling  intensity  of 
the  climax,  which  in  other  hands  might  have  been 
absurd,  the  wonderful  height  of  pure  poetry  reached 

238 


MARLOWE 

in  certain  passages,  and  the  extraordinary  concep- 
tion of  Mephistopheles.  As  a  boy  in  Canterbury, 
Marlowe  had  in  all  probability  seen  frequent  repre- 
sentations of  the  devil  on  the  local  stage,  for  the 
mysteries  and  moralities  were  not  extinct ;  he  was 
of  course  familiar  with  the  devil  of  Puritan  imagina- 
tion, and  of  the  conception  of  hell  as  a  definite  place 
of  fire.  But  instead  of  making  Mephistopheles  a 
grotesque  bugaboo,  compounded  of  mirth  and 
horror,  he  made  him  a  spirit  of  sombre  melancholy, 
tortured  with  the  eternal  memory  of  his  lost  estate. 
And  the  geography  of  hell  shows  that  Marlowe  was 
at  least  two  hundred  years  in  advance  of  his  time. 

"Hell  hath  no  limits,  nor  is  circumscribed 
In  one  self  place :  for  where  we  are  is  hell, 
And  where  hell  is  there  must  we  ever  be." 

The  fact  that  the  miracles  of  one  age  are  the 
commonplaces  of  another  is  curiously  proved  in 
this  drama.  The  Duchess,  on  being  requested  to 
demand  an  illustration  of  the  supernatural  power 
of  Faustus,  asks  what  to  Elizabethan  minds  was  an 
impossible  thing,  —  grapes  in  January.  Mephisto 
is  gone  only  for  a  moment,  and  returns  with  the  de- 
sired fruit,  and  in  reply  to  the  Duke's  amazed  en- 
quiry, Faustus  explains  that  although  it  is  winter 
here  it  is  summer  in  certain  parts  of  the  world,  and 
"  by  means  of  a  swift  spirit "  the  grapes  are  brought. 
Both  the  swift  spirit  and  the  eating  of  grapes  in 

239 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

January  are  now  so  familiar  to  us  as  to  excite  no 
comment. 

The  final  awful  soliloquy  of  Faustus  and  the 
terrific  climax  of  the  play  raise  a  rather  interesting 
question  in  art.  Marlowe's  reputation  in  his  own 
time  was  that  of  an  atheist,  and  it  is  highly  probable 
that  he  was  a  defiant  unbeliever.  But  no  Puritan 
sermon  could  have  exceeded  in  religious  force  and 
effect  the  depiction  of  Faustus's  fearful  struggles 
with  conscience,  and  the  unspeakable  horror  of  his 
departure.  Now,  either  Marlowe,  like  Greene, 
felt  occasional  pangs  of  remorse  (of  which,  however, 
there  is  no  other  evidence  than  this  play)  and  the 
last  soliloquy  came  from  his  own  terror-stricken 
heart,  or  his  artistic  temperament  was  so  com- 
pletely ascendant  that  he  was  able  to  treat  this 
sinner's  dissolution  with  precisely  the  same  artistic 
aloofness  with  which  we  should  describe  the  suffer- 
ings of  Prometheus.  Such  an  attitude  toward  the 
Christian  religion  at  that  time  is,  to  say  the  least, 
unusual ;  and  it  would  require  two  things,  the  most 
absolute  and  assured  unbelief,  and  an  extraordinary 
power  of  artistic  ventriloquism. 

The  Famous  Tragedy  of  the  Rich  Jew  of  Malta 
was  licensed  for  the  press  on  17  May  1594, 
but  the  earliest  known  edition  is  a  quarto  of  1633, 
forty  years  after  Marlowe's  death.  On  the  title- 
page  appears  "  Written  by  Christopher  Mario."    In 

240 


MARLOWE 

spite  of  many  hypotheses  and  conjectures,  no  one 
knows  when  it  was  written  nor  when  it  was  first 
acted.  We  know  that  Alleyn  added  greatly  to  his 
renown  by  his  wonderful  portrayal  of  Barabas ;  on 
the  stage  this  Jew  was  largely  a  comic  character,  and 
wore  a  huge  false  nose.  The  source  of  this  drama  is 
unknown ;  there  seems  to  have  been  an  earlier  play 
on  a  similar  subject ;  but  as  the  play  is  lost,  all  con- 
jectures built  on  it  are  of  no  moment.  This  is  un- 
doubtedly Marlowe's  best  acting  play,  as  Faustus 
is  perhaps  his  literary  masterpiece.  The  plot  is 
wildly  improbable,  like  most  of  the  works  of  Shake- 
speare ;  but  it  is  steadily  interesting,  and  crowded 
with  action.  The  critics  seem  mostly  to  have  de- 
cided that  the  first  two  acts  are  fine,  and  the  last 
three  indicate  a  sad  falling  off.  With  this  judg- 
ment I  find  it  impossible  to  agree.  The  interest 
in  the  story  is  maintained  steadily  to  the  powerful 
and  unexpected  conclusion ;  and  the  climax  is 
of  that  kind  that  has  particularly  delighted  spec- 
tators in  all  ages  of  theatrical  history,  for  'tis  sport 
to  see  the  engineer  hoist  with  his  own  petard. 

With  reference  to  the  Hterary  value  of  The  Jew  oj 
Malta,  much  wordy  war  has  been  waged.  Swin- 
burne says,  "  Only  Milton  has  surpassed  the  open- 
ing soHloquy."  This  is  exaggerative,  for  Shake- 
speare has  surpassed  it  fifty  times,  as  have  other 
English  poets,  including  Marlowe  himself.  It 
R  241 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

does  not  compare  for  an  instant  with  several  pas- 
sages in  Tamburlaine,  nor  with  the  apostrophe  to 
Helen  in  Faustus.  Indeed,  I  think  that  the  Jew's 
soliloquy  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  is 
poetically  superior. 

This  drama  historically  has  its  place  in  the 
Tragedy  of  Blood  school  that  runs  like  a  red  stream 
through  the  entire  course  of  Elizabethan  drama. 
The  Tragedy  of  Blood  began  with  Kyd's  Spanish 
Tragedy,  and  Titus  Andronicus,  powerfully  affected 
Marlowe  and  Chapman,  reached  a  climax  in 
Webster,  and  an  anti-climax  in  Ford.  Not  only  do 
the  majority  of  the  dramatis  personcB  die  violently 
in  the  works  of  this  school,  but  there  is  usually 
a  hired  assassin  who  believes  in  crime  for  crime's 
sake.  He  takes  a  joyous  and  artistic  delight  in 
deeds  of  the  most  revolting  nature.  The  scoundrel 
Aaron,  in  Titus  Andronicus,  is  typical  of  this  stock 
figure : 

"Even  now  I  curse  the  day  —  and  yet  I  think 
Few  come  within  the  compass  of  my  curse  — 
Wherein  I  did  not  some  notorious  ill : 
As  kill  a  man,  or  else  devise  his  death ; 
Ravish  a  maid,  or  plot  the  way  to  do  it ; 
Accuse  some  innocent,  and  forswear  myself: 
Set  deadly  enmity  between  two  friends : 
Make  poor  men's  cattle  break  their  necks : 
Set  fire  on  barns  and  haystacks  in  the  night. 
And  bid  the  owners  quench  them  with  their  tears : 
Oft  have  I  digg'd  up  dead  men  from  their  graves, 
242 


MARLOWE 

And  set  them  upright  at  their  dear  friends'  doors, 
Even  when  their  sorrows  almost  were  forgot : 
And  on  their  skins,  as  on  the  bark  of  trees, 
Have  with  my  knife  carved  in  Roman  letters, 
'Let  not  your  sorrow  die,  though  I  am  dead.' 
Tut,  I  have  done  a  thousand  dreadful  things 
As  willingly  as  one  would  kill  a  fly : 
And  nothing  grieves  me  heartily  indeed, 
But  that  I  cannot  do  ten  thousand  more." 

Now  Ithamore,  in  The  Jew  of  Malta,  fills  this 
role  acceptably ;  for  Barabas,  to  test  him,  describes 
some  of  the  playful  avocations  of  his  own  leisure 
moments : 

"As  for  myself,  I  walk  abroad  o'  nights 
And  lull  sick  people  groaning  under  walls : 
Sometimes  I  go  about  and  poison  wells." 

To  which  virtuous  sentiments  Ithamore  cheer- 
fully replies : 

"One  time  I  was  an  ostler  in  an  inn. 
And  in  the  night-time  secretly  would  I  steal 
To  travellers'  chambers,  and  there  cut  their  throats." 

The  fact  is,  that  the  theatrical  villain  of  the 
Tragedy  of  Blood  had  the  same  zest  in  crime  that 
the  small  boy  of  all  time  has  in  the  perpetration  of 
practical  jokes  on  respectable  citizens. 

Marlowe  in  this  play  did  not  scruple  to  appeal 
to  the  popular  prejudice  against  Jews  by  repre- 
senting Barabas  as  a  hellish  monster ;   but  just  as 

243 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Milton  made  a  hero  out  of  Satan,  so  Marlowe 
created  a  Jew  of  such  colossal  force,  both  in  cun- 
ning and  in  courage,  that  one  feels  admiration  for 
his  vast  ambition  and  tremendous  power,  without 
any  sympathy.  But  Marlowe  apparently  does 
not  love  the  Christians  any  more  than  the  Jews; 
they  too  are  represented  as  devoid  of  truth,  honour, 
and  probity.  The  only  decent  people  in  the  play 
are  the  heathen,  whether  Marlowe  intended  them 
to  be  so  or  not. 

A  comparison  of  The  Jew  of  Malta  with  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice  is  even  more  damaging  to  Marlowe's 
reputation  than  the  comparison  of  Faustus  with 
Goethe's  masterpiece ;  for  Shakespeare  wrote  his 
play  under  conditions  precisely  similar  to  Marlowe's, 
and  not  far  from  the  same  time.  The  fundamental 
difiference  in  the  result  is  that  whereas  Barabas  is 
an  impossible  monster,  Shylock  is  wonderfully 
human.  I  do  not  beheve  for  a  moment  that  Shake- 
speare sympathised  with  Shylock,  or  meant  his 
audience  to  do  so.  I  feel  certain  that  the  downfall 
of  the  man  was  greeted  with  tremendous  applause. 
But  none  the  less,  he  is  a  real  character,  a  sharply 
defined  individual,  not  a  racial  caricature ;  and 
Shakespeare  allows  him  to  speak  cleverly  and 
powerfully  in  his  own  defence,  in  the  method  later 
adopted  by  Browning.  Where  Shakespeare  excels 
Marlowe  is  in  his  vastly  superior  power  of  psy- 

244 


MARLOWE 

chological  analysis,  to  say  nothing  of  the  glorious 
poetry  of  the  conclusion,  which  ends  in  beautiful 
moonlight  and  harmonious  laughter  in  Portia's 
gardens.  Shakespeare  had  one  artistic  virtue 
simply  unknown  to  Marlowe  —  moderation.  In 
the  felicitous  words  of  William  Watson : 

"Your  Marlowe's  page  I  close,  my  Shakespeare's  ope. 
How  welcome  —  after  gong  and  cymbal's  din  — 
The  continuity,  the  long  slow  slope 
And  vast  curves  of  the  gradual  violin  !" 

Marlowe's  influence  on  Shakespeare  was  in  all 
probability  very  great ;  but  it  is  interesting  to  cite 
a  single  famous  passage  from  the  latter  poet, 
where  it  is  easy  to  see  which  are  the  lines  written 
in  the  Marlowesque  and  which  those  in  the  true 
Shakespearian  manner.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
which  is  the  greater. 

"Where  should  Othello  go  ? 
Now,  how  dost  thou  look  now  ?    O  ill-starr'd  wench  ! 
Pale  as  thy  smock  !  when  we  shall  meet  at  compt. 
This  look  of  thine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven, 
And  fiends  wiU  snatch  at  it.     Cold,  cold,  my  girl  ? 
Even  like  thy  chastity.  — 
O  cursed,  cursed  slave  !  —  Whip  me,  ye  devils, 
From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight ! 
Blow  me  about  in  winds  !  roast  me  in  sulphur  ! 
Wash  me  in  steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire  !" 

There   are   certain   striking   similarities   in    the 
three  plays,  Tamburlaine,  Faustus,  and  The  Jew 

245 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

oj  Malta.  In  all  three,  the  emphasis  is  laid  on 
one  character ;  the  others  are  merely  sketched  in. 
Concentration  on  a  single  hero  was  the  aim,  con- 
scious or  unconscious,  of  the  dramatist.  And  in 
each  instance,  this  hero  is  the  personification  of 
some  mad,  devouring  ambition.  The  living  breath 
of  aspiration  vitalises  not  only  this  chief  character, 
but  sets  the  whole  play  aglow  with  poetic  fire.  In 
Tamburlaine,  the  desire  is  for  earthly  power :  he 
will  bestride  the  narrow  world  like  a  colossus,  and 
the  petty  men  must  walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and 
peep  about  to  find  themselves  dishonourable  graves. 
The  critics  have  generally  agreed  that  the  splendid 
speech  of  Tamburlaine : 

"Our  souls,  whose  faculties  can  comprehend 
The  wondrous  architecture  of  the  world," 

ends  in  a  lamentable  anti-climax : 

"Until  we  reach  the  ripest  fruit  of  all, 
That  perfect  bliss  and  sole  felicity, 
The  sweet  fruition  of  an  earthly  crown." 

But  Tamburlaine  did  not  think  so  ;  nor,  I  am  con- 
vinced, did  the  poet.  The  critics  seem  to  be  com- 
pletely mistaken  here ;  for  they  approve  of  the 
early  part  of  the  speech,  with  which  modern  thought 
would  sympathise,  and  condemn  the  conclusion, 
because  it  grates  harshly  on  latter-day  ears.  But 
in   the  days  of  Queen   Elizabeth  and   Philip  II, 

246 


MARLOWE 

when  royalty  was  surrounded  with  the  panoply  of 
supreme  majesty,  was  it  not  brave  to  be  a  king  ? 
A  god  was  not  so  glorious  as  a  king. 

As  in  Tamhurlaine  the  ambition  is  for  earthly 
power,  so  in  Faustus  the  summum  bonum  is  magic 
—  the  control  of  time  and  space.  In  The  Jew  of 
Malta,  it  is  wealth,  and  the  power  that  wealth 
brings :  he  does  not  wish  to  be  merely  a  rich  man  : 

"Fie;  what  a  trouble  'tis  to  count  this  trash," 

He  will  not  rest  until  he  has  everything,  until 
he  sways  empires  with  his  wealth.  The  richest 
merchants  must  be  beggars  in  comparison  with 
him. 

It  is  a  different  Marlowe  that  we  see  in  Ed- 
ward II ;  and  although  the  play  has  been  extrava- 
gantly praised,  I  believe  it  to  be  poetically  markedly 
inferior  to  the  other  three.  It  is  universally  as- 
sumed to  have  been  Marlowe's  last  dramatic  work ; 
but  the  fact  is,  no  one  knows  anything  definite 
about  this  important  matter.  We  do  not  know 
when  it  was  written,  nor  when  it  was  first  put  on 
the  stage.  It  was  licensed  for  printing  6  July 
1593,  about  a  month  after  Marlowe  was  slain; 
but  the  first  known  edition  is  the  quarto  of  1594, 
The  Troublesome  Reign  and  Lamentable  Death  of 
Edward  the  Second,  King  of  England:  with  the 
Tragical  Fall  of  Proud  Mortimer.    And  the  title- 

247 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

page  further  informs  us  that  it  was  "written  by 
Chri.  Marlow  Gent." 

In  this  drama  the  interest  is  not  concentrated 
on  one  character,  as  it  was  in  the  others  :  the  King, 
the  Queen,  Mortimer,  and  Gaveston  all  stand  out 
sharply,  and  lesser  persons  are  not  crudely  set 
forth.  But  it  deals  with  a  single  elemental  passion, 
as  did  Tamhurlaine,  Fausius,  and  The  Jew:  this 
passion  is  friendship.  In  order  to  understand  it, 
one  must  look  upon  the  passion  of  friendship  from 
the  Elizabethan  point  of  view,  which  in  this  matter 
differs  very  largely  from  our  own.  Compared  to 
the  friendships  of  the  Elizabethan  giants,  our  best 
college  friendships  to-day  are  pale.  The  English 
language  has  never  exceeded  in  passion  the  lines  of 
Shakespeare's  sonnets ;  and  most  of  the  best  ones 
were  written  to  a  man,  which,  when  first  discovered 
by  very  young  students,  invariably  causes  a  pain- 
ful shock.  Not  infrequently  Elizabethans  valued 
their  friends  higher  than  their  wives,  or  any  of  the 
ties  of  blood.  If  one  doubts  this,  he  has  only  to 
read  the  words  of  Melantius,  in  The  Maid's  Tragedy. 

As  Tamburlaine  lost  his  life  in  the  passion  for 
earthly  power,  as  Faustus  lost  his  soul  in  the  pas- 
sion for  forbidden  magic,  as  the  Jew  died  a  horrible 
death  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth,  so  Edward  loses  his 
character,  his  position,  his  influence,  his  queen, 
and  finally  his  life,  in  the  vain  passion  of  friend- 

248 


MARLOWE 

ship.  For  Marlowe  shows  the  same  terrible  irony 
here  that  we  have  found  in  his  other  works ;  the 
King,  who  longs  for  Gaveston's  friendship,  believ- 
ing that  in  this  one  instance  he  is  beloved  as  a  man 
rather  than  as  a  King,  is  cruelly  deceived ;  Gaves- 
ton's love  is  founded  wholly  on  selfishness.  The 
heart-hunger  of  royal  personages,  who  so  seldom 
hear  the  language  of  frankness  and  sincerity,  has 
been  repeatedly  used  as  a  motive  in  literature; 
we  have  only  to  remember  Browning's  In  a  Balcony 
and  Daudet's  Kings  in  Exile.  Marlowe  has  em- 
ployed it  here  with  great  power  and  with  a  closer 
approach  to  humanity  than  in  any  other  drama 
ascribed  to  him.  From  the  modern  point  of  view, 
this  weak  king  seems  idiotic ;  but  one  must  under- 
stand Elizabethan  ideas  of  friendship  before  he 
can  understand  that  Friendship  was  a  terrible 
passion,  elevating  and  degrading  like  other  passions ; 
and  that  just  as  kings  have  been  ruined  by  wine 
and  by  women,  so  in  the  sixteenth  century  it  was 
quite  possible  to  be  ruined  by  a  friend. 

King  Edward  is  indeed  a  pathetic  figure  in  Mar- 
lowe's drama,  as  he  was  in  history,  from  the  con- 
temporary chronicles  of  which  the  dramatist 
probably  drew  his  material ;  and  it  is  rather  strange 
to  find  Marlowe,  who  delighted  in  representing  in 
his  other  protagonists  the  very  superlative  of  will- 
power, selecting  here  for  portrayal  a  man  damned 

249 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

with  indecision.  It  can  best  be  accounted  for  by 
remembering  what  has  already  been  so  emphasised, 
that  the  King's  passion  was  too  strong  for  his 
character.  His  death  is  horrible  and  his  last 
speeches  are  full  of  pathos,  especially  the  oft-quoted 
one  in  which  he  compares  his  present  squalor  with 
his  former  splendour,  and  wishes  his  wife  to 
remember  the  contrast.  But  Charles  Lamb's 
comment  on  this  passage,  which  practically  all 
editors  of  Marlowe  quote  as  though  it  were  Holy 
Writ,  is  the  merest  fustian  and  nonsense:  "The 
death-scene  of  Marlowe's  king  moves  pity  and 
terror  beyond  any  scene,  ancient  or  modern,  with 
which  I  am  acquainted."  Twenty  superior  scenes 
might  be  cited,  but  we  need  think  for  the  moment 
only  of  Lear's  whisper  : 

"Cordelia,  Cordelia,  stay  a  little." 

Lamb  deserves  the  homage  of  all  students  of  the 
Elizabethan  drama  for  his  incomparable  services 
in  making  that  drama  known ;  but  his  hyperbole 
of  criticism  is  as  absurd  in  this  instance  as  his 
ridiculous  comparison  of  the  death  of  Calantha  in 
the  Broken  Heart  with  Calvary  and  the  Cross. 
The  time  has  come  for  a  protest. 

Edward  II  belongs  to  the  group  of  Chronicle- 
histories  in  English  dramatic  literature ;  it  was  one 
of   the   first,    and   ranks   deservedly   high.    Had 

250 


MARLOWE 

Marlowe  lived  to  middle  age  he  might  have  done 
splendid  work  in  this  field ;  but  at  his  best,  and  if 
he  had  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  he  could  never  have 
written  a  play  like  Henry  IV,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  has  given  not  the  slightest  indication  of 
possessing  a  sense  of  humour.  And  the  absence  of 
this  is  not  merely  a  positive  loss,  —  it  destroys,  as 
Mr.  Saintsbury  has  pointed  out,  the  power  of  self- 
criticism.  Marlowe  had  no  check  on  his  own  work ; 
like  Victor  Hugo  and  Wordsworth,  he  could  not 
always  tell  when  he  was  sublime  and  when  he  was 
something  very  different.  Yet  self-control,  which 
was  apparently  lacking  in  Marlowe's  own  life  and 
character,  might  have  prevented  his  muse  from  soar- 
ing to  the  vertiginous  heights  reached  in  Tamburlaine 
and  Faustus.  The  real  glory  of  Marlowe  as  a  poet  is 
his  boundless  aspiration ;  we  may  grant  that 
Edward  II  shows  a  commendable  absence  of  the 
rant  and  bluster  that  sometimes  disfigure  his 
other  plays ;  still  it  unfortunately  exhibits  also  an 
absence  of  his  supreme  gifts  as  a  poet.  Other  men 
could  have  written  Edward  II ;  but  no  one  but 
Marlowe  could  have  written  Faustus.  Therefore, 
if  I  had  to  give  up  any  one  of  his  four  great  dramas, 
I  would  most  willingly  spare  the  history  of  the 
forlorn  king. 

Marlowe's  reticence  in  all  his  plays  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  love  between  men  and  women  is  as 

251 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

notable  as  was  Stevenson's,  and  more  difi&cult  to 
explain.  So  far  as  we  can  guess,  this  topic,  which 
has  been  the  mainspring  of  the  drama  among  all 
nations,  did  not  interest  him.  Possibly  he  was  so 
masculine  in  temperament  that  men's  ambitions 
and  powers  were  enough  to  draw  all  his  intellectual 
attention.  Perhaps  in  his  short  life  he  had  never 
met  a  good  woman.  He  has  certainly  created  not 
a  single  feminine  character  that  interests  us  deeply, 
or  who  seems  in  any  complex  way  true  to  life.  Sin 
is  the  basis  of  his  dramas ;  he  has  drawn  no  remark- 
able women,  and  created  no  good  men. 

In  summing  up  his  great  contributions  to  the 
development  of  English  drama,  we  find  that  more 
than  any  other  one  man  he  established  blank  verse 
as  the  medium  of  expression,  and  splendidly  illus- 
trated its  fitness :  he  set  the  pace  for  dramatic 
passion :  he  freed  England  from  the  tyranny  of 
pseudo-classic  domination,  and  made  the  drama 
of  our  race  romantic  and  free.  Had  there  been 
no  Marlowe,  no  one  can  tell  what  the  Elizabethan 
stage  would  have  been ;  but  it  probably  would 
not  have  been  what  it  is,  the  chief  glory  of  English 
literature,  and  the  wonder  of  the  whole  world. 
Marlowe  is  not  the  morning  star  ;  he  is  the  sunrise. 

We  hear  in  his  plays  the  voice  of  Elizabethan 
England ;  he  represents  its  overweening  pride , 
the   enthusiasm   of   discovery  and   conquest,   the 

252 


MARLOWE 

shout  of  success,  the  sky-piercing  ambition 
which  dared  God  out  of  heaven,  the  limitless  aspi- 
ration of  passion  and  of  intellect,  and  the  inflexible 
power  of  an  abnormally  developed  will.  In  the 
twentieth  century,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil, 
we  are  much  closer  to  the  Elizabethans  in  temper- 
ament than  any  of  the  generations  that  stand 
between.  Marlowe  is  a  writer  whom  we  can 
perfectly  understand,  even  while  we  secretly  realise 
the  folly  of  such  spiritual  leadership.  As  a 
deeply  thoughtful  writer  ^  of  to-day  has  remarked : 
"It  is  by  their  will  that  we  recognise  the  Eliza- 
bethans, by  the  will  that  drove  them  over  the  seas 
of  passion,  as  well  as  over  the  seas  that  ebb  and 
flow  with  the  salt  tides.  It  is  by  their  thoughts, 
so  much  higher  than  their  emotions,  that  we  know 
the  men  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  and  by  their 
quick  sensibility  to  the  sting  of  life,  the  men  of  the 
nineteenth.  .  .  .  For,  from  a  sensitive  correspond- 
ence with  environment  our  race  has  passed  into 
another  stage;  it  is  marked  now  by  a  passionate 
desire  for  the  mastery  of  life  —  a  desire,  spirit- 
ualised in  the  highest  lives,  materialised  in  the 
lowest,  so  to  mould  environment  that  the  lives  to 
come  may  be  shaped  to  our  will.  It  is  this  which 
accounts  for  the  curious  likeness  in  our  to-day  with 

^  Miss  M.  P.  Willcocks,  in  her  admirable  novel,  The  Wingless 
Victory. 

253 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

that  of  the  Elizabethans ;  their  spirit  was  the  un- 
tamed will,  but  our  will  moves  in  other  paths  than 
theirs,  paths  beaten  for  our  treading  by  the  ages 
between." 

Such  words  as  these  are  well  worth  reflection, 
for  they  contain  profound  wisdom.  Tamburlaine, 
Faustus,  and  Barabas  —  probably  Marlowe  him- 
self —  were  nothing  more  nor  less  than  Nietzsche's 
Superman ;  and  we  know  very  well  what  he  is  and 
what  he  wants.  But  his  influence  is  already  on  the 
wane ;  for  he  is  not  only  no  God,  he  knows  less  of 
the  meaning  of  life  than  a  little  child. 


254 


IX 

THE   POET  HERRICK 

"  What  mighty  epics  have  been  wrecked  by  time 
Since  Herrick  launched  his  cockleshells  of  rhyme  ! " 

Robert  Herrick  died  in  1674,  and  the  first 
biography  of  the  man  appeared  in  1910.  The 
reason  why  no  "Life"  of  Herrick  was  published 
in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  was 
because  nobody  cared  anything  about  him ;  the 
reason  for  the  absence  of  such  a  work  in  the  nine- 
teenth century  is  because  there  was  so  little  to  say. 
Now  the  appearance  of  the  first  biography  of  a 
well-known  poet  more  than  two  hundred  years  after 
his  death  is  a  literary  event  of  some  consequence, 
and  calls  for  more  than  a  passing  comment.  I  open 
the  beautiful  volume  with  keen  anticipation, 
read  it  with  steady  attention,  and  close  it  with  dis- 
appointment. It  is  written  with  considerable  skill, 
contains  much  good  and  sound  literary  criticism, 
indicates  clearly  the  relation  of  Herrick's  lyrics 
to  the  production  of  his  predecessors,  and  properly 
appraises  his  historical  significance.  But  Profes- 
sor Moorman's  Life  of  Herrick  resembles  the  many 
lives  of  Shakespeare  in  the  disparity  between  the 
slenderness  of  fact  and  the  fatness  of  the  book. 

255 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

This  history  of  Robert  Herrick  covers  over  three 
hundred  pages,  and  the  known  events  of  his  life 
could  be  printed  in  about  the  same  number  of 
words.  That  such  a  work  should  be  undertaken, 
however,  is  proof  —  if  any  were  needed— of  the 
permanence  of  the  poet's  fame.  That  a  biography 
should  appear  within  three  years  of  a  man's  death 
is  a  sign  that  he  has  made  some  noise  in  the  world, 
but  it  is  no  indication  of  how  long  the  echoes  will 
resound.  But  that  the  first  biography  of  a  seven- 
teenth century  poet  should  appear  in  the  twentieth 
century  looks  like  immortality. 

About  all  that  we  really  know  of  Robert  Herrick 
is  this :  his  father's  name  was  Nicholas,  who 
married  Julian  Stone  8  December  1582.  The 
poet  was  born  in  Cheapside,  London,  in  August 
1 591.  The  next  year  his  father  fell  from  a  window 
and  was  killed.  On  25  September  1607,  the  boy 
was  apprenticed  to  his  uncle.  Sir  William  Herrick, 
a  goldsmith.  Professor  Moorman  publishes  the 
full  text  of  the  indenture,  which  is  interesting. 
In  16 13  the  young  man  entered  Cambridge,  and 
took  his  B.A.  in  1617,  and  his  M.A.  in  1620. 
Whether  he  remained  in  residence  from  161 7  to 
1620  is  unknown.  Where  he  was,  and  how  he 
spent  the  years  between  161 7  and  1629,  is  unknown  ; 
part  of  the  time  he  must  have  been  in  London,  for 
his  poems  show  an  intimate  friendship  with  Ben 

256 


THE    POET    HERRICK 

Jonson.  In  1629  he  was  appointed  to  the  living 
of  Dean  Prior,  in  Devonshire,  and  became  a  country- 
parson.  In  1647  he  was  ejected  from  this  position 
by  the  Puritans,  and  made  his  way  to  London. 
There  he  published  in  1648  the  single  volume  of 
his  poems,  H  es  per  ides ;  a  separate  title-page  in 
the  same  book,  prefacing  the  Noble  Numbers^  has 
the  date  1647.  Where  and  how  he  lived  between 
1647  and  1662  is  unknown,  except  that  for  a  part 
of  the  time  he  seems  to  have  been  in  Westminster. 
In  1662  he  returned  to  Dean  Prior,  having  been 
reinstated  by  the  crown.  The  last  twelve  years 
of  his  life  are  shrouded  in  absolute  silence.  He  was 
buried  at  Dean  Prior,  15  October  1674.  No  stone 
is  left  to  mark  the  spot. 

We  have  a  portrait  of  him,  engraved  by  William 
Marshall.  It  looks  more  like  a  bartender  than  a 
poet.  Let  us  hope  it  is  a  caricature,  for  we  know 
what  Milton  thought  of  the  same  artist's  present- 
ment of  himself.  Although  Herrick  prophesied 
immortality  for  his  poems  over  and  over  again, 
the  little  volume  of  1648  attracted  no  attention, 
and  made  absolutely  no  impression  either  on  con- 
temporary men  of  letters  or  on  the  public. 
Whether  presumptive  readers  were  terrified  by  the 
frontispiece-portrait,  or  whether  the  poems  were 
choked  by  the  excitement  of  the  political  revolution, 
we  do  not  know ;  no  second  edition  was  called  for, 
s  257 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

and  none  appeared  until  1823!  Our  ignorance 
of  Herrick's  career  is  matched  only  by  the  puzzle 
of  his  character.  There  are  over  twelve  hundred 
poems  in  his  book  which  bafSe  all  attempts  at 
chronological  arrangement.  Scholars  have  made 
all  sorts  of  guesses  at  the  dates  of  their  composition, 
editors  have  "assigned"  this  and  that  poem  to 
this  and  that  period,  and  we  remain  in  ignorance. 
Seldom  has  there  ever  lived  a  poet  who  prattled  so 
much  about  himself ;  he  has  no  reserve ;  he  is  very 
confidential,  very  garrulous ;  yet  the  fundamental 
traits  in  his  character  remain  unknown ;  pleasant 
subjects  for  speculation,  like  metaphysics,  because 
incapable  of  proof.  Dr.  Grosart  said  he  was  an 
earnest  Christian  ;  Mr.  Gosse  says  he  was  a  pagan  ; 
and  Mr.  Saintsbury  says  that,  whatever  he  was,  he 
was  not  a  pagan.  He  talks  constantly  about 
various  fair  women,  and  nobody  knows  whether 
these  girls  existed  in  life  or  only  in  his  imagination. 
Following  the  custom  of  his  time,  he  wrote  poems 
of  deep  piety,  poems  of  licentious  abandonment, 
and  poems  of  unspeakable  filth.  Seldom  has  a 
poet  written  more  charmingly  of  the  rural  beauty  of 
country  life,  of  fresh  fields  and  wild  flowers ;  and 
yet  his  real  love  of  the  country  may  be  reasonably 
doubted,  for  he  speaks  of  Devonshire  with  loath- 
ing, and  seems  to  have  longed  passionately  for 
London.     At  the  beginning  of  the  Hesperides  we 

258 


THE     POET    HERRICK 

find  "The  Argument  of  his  Book,"  which  is  cer- 
tainly a  good  overture  to  the  music  it  contains : 

"  I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds,  and  bowers. 
Of  April,  May,  of  June,  and  July  flowers ; 
I  sing  of  May  poles,  hock-carts,  wassails,  wakes, 
Of  bridegrooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal  cakes ; 
I  write  of  youth,  of  love,  and  have  access 
By  these  to  sing  of  cleanly  wantonness ; 
I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and  piece  by  piece 
Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice  and  ambergris ; 
I  sing  of  times  transshifting,  and  I  write 
How  roses  first  came  red  and  lilies  white ; 
I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing 
The  Court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  fairy  king; 
I  write  of  hell ;  I  sing  (and  ever  shall) 
Of  heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all." 

But  later  on  we  find  poems  like  these : 

"  More  discontents  I  never  had 
Since  I  was  born  than  here. 
Where  I  have  been  and  still  am  sad, 
In  this  dull  Devonshire." 

The  second  poem  in  the  Nohle  Numbers  reads : 

"  For  those  my  unbaptized  rhymes, 
Writ  in  my  wild  unhallowed  times ; 
For  every  sentence,  clause,  and  word, 
That's  not  inlaid  with  thee,  my  Lord, 
Forgive  me,  God,  and  blot  each  line 
Out  of  my  book  that  is  not  thine." 

And  yet  in  the  same  volume  he  published  many 
poems  that  are  not  only  cynically  anti-religious 

259 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

in  spirit,  but  almost  inconceivably  coarse.  A 
professional  clergyman  and  country  parson,  he 
often  writes  like  a  profligate.  Then  at  the  end  of 
the  Hesperides  he  put  this  couplet : 

"  To  his  book's  end  this  last  hne  he'd  have  placed : 
Jocund  his  muse  was,  but  his  hfe  was  chaste." 

Were  the  last  line  original,  we  might  form  some 
true  notion  from  it,  but,  unfortunately,  it  is  a  trans- 
lation from  Ovid ! 

The  only  way  to  approach  an  understanding  of 
the  man  and  his  philosophy  of  life  is  to  remember, 
first,  last,  and  all  the  time,  that  he  was  a  lyric  poet. 
Lyrical  poetry  does  not  betray  the  character  of 
its  author,  it  simply  reveals  his  moods.  Every 
individual  has  all  kinds  of  moods,  some  religious, 
some  worldly ;  some  prudent,  some  reckless ; 
some  showing  a  love  of  retirement,  some  showing 
a  love  of  crowded  streets ;  some  ascetic,  some  sen- 
sual. It  is  not  in  the  least  inconceivable  that  the 
same  man  should  at  times  have  felt  like  the  country 
Herrick,  again  like  the  city  Herrick,  again  like  the 
parson  Herrick,  again  like  the  lover  Herrick,  and 
again  like  the  Herrick  of  the  Epigrams,  though  a 
modern  writer  would  never  dare  to  print  such 
thoughts.  With  all  the  conscious  art  of  the  trained 
literary  expert,  Herrick  thinks  out  loud  with  the 
artlessness  of  a  child.     With  one  exception  Herrick 

260 


THE    POET    HERRICK 

almost  never  alludes  to  contemporary  literature, 
and  he  seems  to  have  been  quite  deaf  to  its  voice. 
The  two  Englishmen  who  most  strongly  influ- 
enced the  lyric  poetry  of  the  seventeenth  century 
were  the  Rev.  Dr.  Donne  and  Ben  Jonson.  The 
author  of  the  Hesperides  belonged  to  the  tribe  of 
Ben,  and  owed  more  to  him  than  to  any  other 
British  poet ;  like  his  master,  he  loved  the  Latin 
classics,  and  knew  them  well.  Out  of  the  whole 
range  of  the  world's  literature  we  find  that  the  two 
writers  to  whom  in  spirit  and  in  form  Herrick  was 
most  closely  akin  were  Horace  and  Jonson.  He  had 
in  large  measure  their  devotion  to  art,  their  intense 
power  of  taking  pains,  their  hatred  of  careless  and 
slovenly  work.  Even  the  slightest  poems  in  the 
Hesperides  show  the  fastidious  and  conscientious 
artist.  Then,  in  spite  of  the  Nohle  Numbers,  the 
great  majority  of  Herrick's  verses  breathe  the  spirit 
of  Horace  —  the  love  of  this  world  and  the  celebra- 
tion of  its  delights,  all  the  more  precious  because  so 
transitory.  The  influence  of  Jonson  both  in  thought 
and  in  metre  is  evident  everywhere.  One  of  the 
most  celebrated  of  Herrick's  poems  is  directly  imi- 
tative of  Ben  Jonson,  who  in  turn  borrowed  his 
lines  from  the  Latin.  In  Jonson's  Silent  Woman 
we  find  the  graceful  lyric  : 

"  Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 
As  you  were  going  to  a  feast, 
261 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Still  to  be  pou'dred,  still  perfum'd : 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presum'd, 
Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
AH  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  looke,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicitie  a  grace ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  haire  as  free : 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  th'  adulteries  of  art. 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart." 

Number  83  of  the  Hesperides  reads : 

"  A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness ; 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction  ; 
An  erring  lace  which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher ; 
A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly. 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat ; 
A  careless  shoestring,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility  — 
Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part." 

This  poetic  idea  is  not  exactly  in  harmony  with  the 
advice  recently  given  to  the  students  at  a  college 
for  women  :  —  "  Girls,  stand  up  straight,  don't  look 
at  the  boys,  and  keep  your  shoestrings  tied." 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  once  more  that  in  all 
forms  of  art  little  depends  on  the  subject  and  much 
on  the  treatment.     Herrick  was  not  a  deep  thinker, 

262 


THE    POET    HERRICK 

and  only  rarely  touched  on  great  subjects  ;  in  read- 
ing him  we  do  not  wrestle  with  challenging  ideas, 
we  simply  walk  happily  and  aimlessly  in  a  sunlit 
garden.  The  perfume  of  flowers  exhales  from  his 
old  pages,  and  many  of  his  poems  are  as  perfect  in 
form  and  beauty  as  the  flowers  themselves.  He  talks 
intimately  about  the  little  things  in  life,  but  his  art 
is  so  exquisite  that  his  slender  volume  has  outlived 
tons  of  formidable  folios.  A  great  theme  in  itself 
has  never  made  a  book  live ;  but  often  a  good  style 
has  defied  death.  Swinburne,  who  knew  poetry 
when  he  saw  it,  said  that  Herrick  was  the  greatest 
writer  of  songs  in  the  English  language.  We  can- 
not forget  him,  either  in  a  light  or  in  a  serious  mood. 
From  the  Nohle  Numbers: 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent 

"  Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 
The  larder  lean 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 
Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour, 
Or  ragg'd  to  go, 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look  and  sour  ? 
263 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

No ;  'tis  a  fast  to  dole 
Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 
And  meat, 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate 
And  hate ; 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief -rent ; 
To  starve  thy  sin, 
Not  bin ; 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent." 

From  the  Hesperides : 

To  Primroses,  Filled  with  Morning  Dew 

"  Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ?  can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teem'd  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas  !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower. 
Nor  felt  th'  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind, 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years 

Or  warp'd  as  we 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
To  speak  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue." 

The  first  of  these  poems  is  as  eternally  true  in 
the  sphere  of  morals  as  is  the  second  in  the  domain 

of  art. 

264 


X 

SCHOPENHAUER  AND   OMAR 

The  intellectual  delight  I  find  in  reading  Scho- 
penhauer is  caused  partly  by  the  splendid  consist- 
ency of  his  pessimism.  One  does  not  often  meet 
a  writer  who  has  the  courage  and  the  candour 
seriously  to  elaborate  a  whole  system  of  thought, 
logically  leading  up  to  the  conclusion  that  the  world 
is  worse  than  nothing.  Jonathan  Swift  was  a 
consistent  pessimist,  both  in  his  writings  and  in  his 
conduct ;  he  regularly  kept  his  birthday  as  a  day 
of  fasting  and  mourning ;  but  Swift  left  no  phil- 
osophical system.  Carlyle  often  spoke  like  a 
pessimist,  but  his  pessimism  was  not  inseparably 
connected  with  the  order  of  the  world :  it  sprang 
simply  from  a  belief  that  the  tendencies  of  the 
age  were  bad.  Many  writers  are  pessimists  —  or 
think  they  are  —  in  times  of  special  misfortune, 
or  when  absorbed  in  a  morbid  train  of  thought. 
Lyrical  poetry  is  often  pessimistic,  because  it  is  so 
often  the  outcome  of  a  melancholy  mood,  or  the 
expression  of  unsatisfied  desire.  In  a  general 
reading  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  we  should  not  class 
him  among  the  pessimists  :  but  some  of  his  sonnets 

265 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

are  steeped  in  pessimism.  Perhaps  there  is  no  one 
who  has  not  at  some  time,  for  a  long  or  short  inter- 
val, been  a  pessimist ;  who  has  not  deeply  felt 
what  the  Germans  call  Weltschmerz;  but  the  pecul- 
iar mark  of  Schopenhauer  is  that  he  is  a  pessimist 
in  cold  blood.  His  system  is  indeed  just  the  reverse 
of  that  of  Carlyle,  who  denounced  the  age  and  the 
men  of  the  age,  but  who  believed  in  a  beneficent 
order  of  the  universe  and  in  the  divine  potentiality 
of  human  nature :  it  is  altogether  different  from 
the  pessimism  of  the  Book  of  Ecclesiastes,  empha- 
sising the  vanity  and  suffering  of  life,  but  finding 
one  key  to  the  mystery  in  fearing  God  and  keeping 
His  commandments.  Schopenhauer's  pessimism 
is  coldly  philosophical,  one  might  almost  say 
mathematical.  Except  in  places  where  he  flings 
mud  at  the  professors  of  philosophy,  his  book 
nowhere  sounds  like  the  tone  of  a  soured  or  disap- 
pointed man ;  the  writer  is  in  mental  equipoise,  in 
perfect  possession  of  his  wits.  It  took  him  four 
years  —  from  the  age  of  twenty-six  to  the  age  of 
thirty  —  to  complete  his  work  for  the  press,  and 
he  wrote  only  during  the  first  three  hours  of  the 
morning,  when  the  cream  of  his  rich  mind  rose 
to  the  top.  We  can  easily  imagine  him  seated 
before  a  warm  fire,  with  his  dressing-gown  and 
slippers  on,  placidly  writing  off  his  theory  that  the 
world  is  a  mirror  of  hell ;    that  life  and  suffering 

266 


SCHOPENHAUER    AND    OMAR 

are  identical ;  that  consciousness  is  the  cardinal 
error  of  nature ;  that  human  existence  is  a  tragedy, 
with  the  dignity  of  tragedy  taken  away.  His 
temperament  may  be  accurately  described  in  the 
words  of  a  biographer  of  John  Randolph,  "His 
was  a  nature  that  would  have  made  a  hell  for  itself 
even  if  fate  had  put  a  heaven  around  it."  The 
relative  goodness  and  badness  of  men  does  not 
affect  Schopenhauer's  pessimism.  He  would  say 
that  human  character  has  little  enough  good  in  it, 
but  even  if  it  had  ten  times  the  amount  it  possesses, 
it  could  attain  to  no  more  happiness.  Man  is  so 
constituted  as  to  make  worldly  existence  constant 
pain ;  we  are  but  the  manifestation  of  a  blind  Will, 
which  multiplies  itself  in  millions  of  forms,  each 
one  transient,  expiating  the  error  of  its  existence 
by  death.  It  is  far  better  not  to  be ;  before  our 
sad  eyes  stands  only  the  nothingness  from  which 
we  sprang  into  the  light ;  and  this  nothingness  is 
the  only  goal  of  the  highest  human  endeavour. 
Schopenhauer  has,  of  course,  a  practical  philoso- 
phy, an  ethical  solution :  it  is  the  complete  denial 
of  the  will  to  live.  The  only  way  of  salvation  is  to 
escape  from  one's  tormenting  and  tormented  self; 
in  asceticism  one  will  find,  not  indeed  happiness, 
but  a  calm  contemplation  of  the  world-tragedy, 
and  the  only  worthy  preparation  for  the  paradise 
of  annihilation. 

267 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  and  to  contrast 
Schopenhauer's  dramatic  system  with  the  philos- 
ophy and  advice  of  Omar  Khayyam,  the  astron- 
omer-poet of  Persia.  The  sick  World  is  the 
patient ;  and  these  two  learned  doctors  agree  in 
the  diagnosis,  and  differ  as  to  the  remedy.  Both 
men  were  greater  in  literature  than  in  either  science 
or  philosophy.  Schopenhauer's  sincere  and  noble 
style,  so  musical,  so  melancholy,  with  its  flexibility 
of  movement  and  brilliancy  of  illustration,  with 
its  sparkling  wit  and  its  solemn  earnestness,  has 
placed  him  forever  among  the  few  great  prose 
writers  of  Germany.  It  is  indeed  his  literary  genius 
that  accounts  primarily  for  his  prodigious  influence 
on  so  many  native  and  foreign  authors  —  an  influ- 
ence that  began  shortly  before  his  death  in  i860, 
and  which  shows  to-day  no  sign  of  diminishing 
power.  The  Persian,  after  a  sleep  of  many  cen- 
turies, had  a  glorious  reincarnation  in  Edward 
Fitzgerald.  The  English  poet  draped  old  Omar  in 
a  garment  of  such  radiant  beauty  as  to  make  the 
ideas  in  the  Ruhdiydt  seem  infinitely  more  stately 
and  imposing  than  they  appear  when  stripped  of 
all   adornment.^     Both   Schopenhauer   and   Omar 

*  This  may  easily  be  seen  by  comparing  Fitzgerald's  with  a 
literal  prose  translation,  in  Nathan  Haskell  Dole's  admirable 
variorum  edition  of  the  Ruhdiydt;  one  of  the  most  important  of 
the  vast  number  of  services  that  Mr.  Dole  has  rendered  to  Eng- 
lish students  of  various  foreign  literatures. 

268 


SCHOPENHAUER    AND     OMAR 

are  fatalists,  believing  in  the  despotism  of  destiny, 
both  believe  that  the  soul  of  man  is  ultimately 
lost  in  death's  dateless  night.  Yet  their  ethical 
solutions  of  the  eternal  problem  are  contrary. 
Schopenhauer  says,  "  You  must  escape  from  your- 
self by  asceticism."  Omar  says,  "  You  must  escape 
from  yourself  by  plunging  into  pleasure." 

Both  Schopenhauer  and  Omar  were  able  to  lead 
independent  intellectual  lives ;  each  had  a  sufficient 
income,  which  left  him  free  to  devote  his  whole 
time  to  thought.  This  was  probably  one  cause 
of  their  pessimism.  As  many  a  man  is  an  atheist 
with  a  brilliant  book  in  his  hand,  and  a  theist  in 
activity,  so  men  are  pessimists  in  solitary  hours 
when  they  contemplate  the  stage  of  life,  and  behold 
what  looks  like  a  great  tragedy :  when  one  leaves 
the  auditorium  for  the  stage,  when  one  plays  one's 
part  actively  with  others,  pessimism  sometimes 
vanishes,  and  life  becomes  significant  and  impor- 
tant. For  pessimism  is  not  begotten  of  pain,  but 
of  the  awful  fear  that  the  world  has  no  meaning. 

Schopenhauer's  life  was  singularly  uneventful : 
Omar's  existence  was  flavoured  with  romance. 
When  a  youth,  he  agreed  with  his  two  most  inti- 
mate friends,  that  whichever  of  them  became  rich 
should  divide  his  property  equally  with  the  others. 
One  of  them  rose  to  be  Vizier,  and  Omar,  in  a  pleas- 
ant and  quite  natural  inconsistency  with  his  teach- 

269 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

ing,  asked  simply  for  a  competence,  that  he  might 
devote  his  life  to  intellectual  pursuits.  Strange  to 
say,  his  friend  was  willing  to  divide  up ;  and  Omar 
became  a  devotee  of  science  and  philosophy,  giving 
special  attention  to  astronomy.  The  pleasure  he 
found  in  study  did  not  diminish  his  zeal  for  theoreti- 
cal debauchery.  His  summum  honum  is  wine  and 
women,  while  he  may  have  taken  care  to  avoid  both. 
Schopenhauer  solemnly  preaches  asceticism,  but 
was  a  saint  only  at  his  desk.  He  showed  the  steep 
and  thorny  way  to  heaven,  but  recked  not  his  own 
rede.  Now  the  instinct  of  humanity  is  correct  in 
testing  the  value  of  a  doctrine  by  the  practice  of  the 
man  who  utters  it.  As  Emerson  remarked,  "  What 
you  are  thunders  so  loud  I  cannot  hear  what  you 
say."  A  physician  cannot  speak  impressively 
against  tobacco  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

The  three  questions  which  every  thoughtful  man 
asks,  What  am  I  ?  Why  am  I  ?  Whither  am  I 
going?  were  ones  to  which  Omar  could  find  no 
answer.  His  philosophy,  which  has  been,  is  now, 
and  perhaps  always  will  be  popular,  amounts  simply 
to  this  :  We  find  ourselves  in  a  world  full  of  beauty 
and  physical  delight,  but  which  is  an  enigma.  By 
the  highest  part  of  our  nature,  we  are  driven  to 
questionings  which  lead  us  into  the  darkness  and 
leave  us  there.  Of  our  origin,  of  our  destiny  we 
know  absolutely  nothing :   the  past  and  the  future 

270 


SCHOPENHAUER    AND    OMAR 

are  blank :  but  we  do  know  that  our  present  life 
is  short :  that  we  have  opportunities  for  positive 
pleasure  of  the  senses :  to  postpone  this  is  to  lose 
it.  The  wise  man  will  grasp  pleasure  while  he  has 
the  power,  instead  of  laying  up  treasures  in  a 
mythical  heaven. 

To  an  austere  mind  whose  religious  faith  has 
never  been  shaken,  such  a  doctrine  as  Omar's  seems 
unworthy  of  so  profound  a  scholar  :  one  must  have 
tasted  the  bitterness  of  scepticism  before  one  can 
have  much  charity  for  the  Persian  poet. 

Schopenhauer  in  prose,  and  Omar  in  verse,  are 
in  melancholy  agreement  in  their  estimate  of  the 
significance  of  the  individual  life.  Listen  to  the 
German : 

It  is  really  incredible  how  meaningless  and  void  of  sig- 
nificance, when  looked  at  from  without,  how  dull  and  unen- 
lightened by  intellect  when  felt  from  within,  is  the  course 
of  the  life  of  the  great  majority  of  men.  Every  individual, 
every  human  being  and  his  course  of  life,  is  but  another  short 
dream  of  the  endless  spirit  of  nature,  of  the  persistent  will 
to  Hve:  is  only  another  fleeting  form,  which  it  carelessly 
sketches  on  its  infinite  page,  space  and  time.  And  yet,  and 
here  lies  the  serious  side  of  life,  every  one  of  these  fleeting 
forms,  these  empty  fancies,  must  be  paid  for  by  the  whole 
will  to  live,  in  all  its  activity,  with  many  and  deep  suffer- 
ings, and  finally  with  a  bitter  death,  long  feared  and  coming 
at  last.  This  is  why  the  sight  of  a  corpse  makes  us  suddenly 
so  serious.^ 

1  Citations  from  Schopenhauer  are  from  Lord  Haldane's 
translation. 

271 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

The  voice  of  the  Persian  : 

"  'Tis  but  a  tent,  where  takes  his  one  day's  rest 
A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  death  addrest : 
The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash 
Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  guest. 

And  fear  not  lest  Existence  closing  your 
Account,  and  mine,  should  know  the  like  no  more : 
The  Eternal  Saki  from  that  bowl  has  poured 
Millions  of  bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour." 

Both  men  are  fatalists :  each  believes  in  some 
force  which  is  the  ground  of  the  world  of  things, 
and  which  works  itself  out  regardless  of  the  human 
race  :  deaf  to  all  human  cries  of  pain  :  inevitable 
and  inexorable  :  of  which  man  is  but  the  plaything. 
Fatalism  rules  the  world  and  the  actions  of  men, 
and  the  sooner  we  recognise  this  truth,  the  better 
for  our  peace  of  mind. 

Schopenhauer  says : 

It  holds  good  of  inward  as  of  outward  circumstances 
that  there  is  for  us  no  consolation  so  effective  as  the  com- 
plete certainty  of  unalterable  necessity.  No  evil  that 
befalls  us  pains  us  so  much  as  the  thought  of  the  cir- 
cumstances by  which  it  might  have  been  warded  off. 
Therefore  nothing  comforts  us  so  effectually  as  the  con- 
sideration of  what  has  happened  from  the  standpoint  of 
necessity,  from  which  all  accidents  appear  as  tools  in  the 
hand  of  an  over-ruling  fate,  and  we  therefore  recognise  the 
evil  that  has  come  to  us  as  inevitably  produced  by  the 
conflict  of  inner  and  outer  circumstances :  in  other  words, 
fatalism. 

272 


SCHOPENHAUER    AND    OMAR 

Omar  calls  us  a  moving  row  of  shadow-shapes, 
impotent  pieces  on  the  chequer-board ;  and  there 
is  no  use  looking  to  the  sky  for  help,  for  the  sky  is 
as  impotent  as  we. 

We  find  then  our  two  philosophers  in  complete 
agreement  as  to  the  insignificance  of  man  and  the 
hopelessness  of  his  future :  there  remains,  however, 
this  question.  The  two  doctors  have  both  con- 
demned us  :  our  case  is  indeed  hopeless :  but  what 
are  we  going  to  do?  Although  of  no  importance 
to  our  neighbours,  and  of  no  interest  to  God,  still, 
here  we  are :  and  here  we  must  stay  until  merciful 
annihilation  relieves  us.  What  shall  we  do  to  make 
ourselves  as  comfortable  as  possible  ?  Now  to  this 
question,  which  surely  has  some  value  to  us,  Scho- 
penhauer and  Omar  give  precisely  opposite  answers. 

Schopenhauer  says  the  problem  is  to  escape  from 
personality,  from  selfhood,  from  the  domination 
of  will :  and  strangely  enough  he  makes  this  retreat 
possible  only  through  the  intellect,  by  means  of 
that  very  consciousness  which  he  has  declared  to 
be  the  mistake  of  our  being.  Men  of  genius  are 
freed  at  intervals  from  the  will,  because  of  the  high 
order  of  their  intellect,  which  permits  them  to  be 
lost  in  aesthetic  contemplation  of  the  Universals, 
the  Platonic  Ideas:  to  attain  to  this  state  of 
blessedness,  all  willing  and  striving  for  pleasure 
must  be  absolutely  abandoned,  for  it  is  only  as  one 
T  273 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

contemplates  one's  self  in  the  third  person  that 
one  finds  any  respite  from  sufifering.  The  wise 
man  will  cut  off  everything  that  connects  him  with 
the  world,  will  resolutely  sacrifice  the  longing  for 
happiness,  and,  by  the  examples  of  saints  and 
martyrs,  will  endeavour  to  become  as  unworldly 
and  as  impersonal  as  they.  This  is  the  gospel 
according  to  Schopenhauer :  this  is  the  only  way 
to  overcome  the  world. 

Omar  does  not  only  dislike  this  remedy,  he  spe- 
cifically condemns  it.  He  wishes  indeed  to  escape 
from  self,  but  in  a  quite  different  sense :  we  must 
escape  from  self-introspection,  from  philosophical 
meditation,  from  the  subjective  life.  The  shortest 
route  to  this  refuge  is  the  alcoholic  one,  which  he 
earnestly  recommends.  Increase  of  knowledge 
increaseth  sorrow.  Why  throw  away  the  short 
time  we  have  in  ascetic  negation  ?  The  positive 
pleasures  of  life  are  within  our  reach.  To  see  the 
total  difference  in  the  practical  philosophy  of  our 
two  guides,  let  us  compare  their  eloquence. 

From  Schopenhauer : 

True  salvation,  deliverance  from  life  and  suflfering,  can- 
not even  be  imagined  without  complete  denial  of  the  will. 
...  If  we  turn  our  glance  from  our  own  needy  and  em- 
barrassed condition  to  those  who  have  overcome  the  world, 
in  whom  the  will,  having  attained  to  perfect  self-knowledge, 
found  itself  again  in  all,  and  then  freely  denied  itself  and 
who  then  merely  wait  to  see  the  last  trace  of  it  vanish  with 

274 


SCHOPENHAUER    AND     OMAR 

the  body  which  it  animates :  then,  instead  of  the  restless 
striving  and  effort,  instead  of  the  constant  transition  from 
wish  to  fruition,  and  from  joy  to  sorrow,  instead  of  the 
never-satisfied  and  never-dying  hope  which  constitutes  the 
life  of  the  man  who  wills,  we  shall  see  that  peace  which  is 
above  all  reason,  that  perfect  calm  of  the  spirit,  that  deep 
rest,  that  inviolable  confidence  and  serenity,  the  mere  re- 
flection of  which  in  the  countenance,  as  Raphael  and  Cor- 
reggio  have  represented  it,  is  an  entire  and  certain  gospel": 
only  knowledge  remains,  the  will  has  vanished. 

From  Omar : 

"  You  know,  my  friends,  with  what  a  brave  carouse 
I  made  a  second  marriage  in  my  house : 
Divorced  old  barren  Reason  from  my  bed, 
And  took  the  daughter  of  the  Vine  to  spouse. 

Come,  fill  the  cup  and  in  the  fire  of  spring 
Your  winter-garment  of  repentance  fling : 
The  bird  of  time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter  —  and  the  bird  is  on  the  wing." 

The  German's  wslj  of  salvation  is  from  the  will 
to  the  intellect :  the  Persian's  from  the  intellect 
to  the  will. 

Goethe  permitted  Faust  to  try  both  systems, 
and  to  find  salvation  in  neither ;  and  for  our  edi- 
fication there  are  many  people  walking  in  each  way 
at  this  moment,  whose  experiment  we  may  observe. 
Faust  discovered  that  asceticism  and  sensuality 
both  led  to  misery ;  that  the  only  course  which 
brought  true  happiness  was  faith  in  God  and  active 
devotion  to  man,  which  is  the  teaching  of  Chris- 
275 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

tianity.  Schopenhauer's  philosophy  is  perhaps 
greater  and  grander  than  Omar's,  but  while  they 
both  interest  us,  neither  can  save  us.  Absolute 
pessimism  cannot  lead  to  a  rational  or  noble  way 
of  life  :  and  there  is  hardly  more  virtue  in  asceticism 
than  there  is  in  pleasure. 


276 


XI 

LESSING  AS  A  CREATIVE  CRITIC 

Germany  did  not  become  a  world-power  in 
literature  until  after  1750.  This  is  a  remarkable 
fact,  in  view  of  what  had  been  going  on  for  centuries 
in  Italy,  France,  Spain,  and  England.  So  far  as 
a  nation  can  owe  a  whole  literature  to  one  man, 
Germany  owes  hers  to  Lessing. 

The  realistic  picture  of  depravity  which  Paul 
drew  in  the  first  part  of  his  letter  to  the  Romans 
would  fairly  represent  the  condition  of  Germany 
at  the  close  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  The  civil- 
isation of  the  Fatherland  relapsed  fully  two 
centuries.  There  was  nothing  remotely  resembling 
a  national  spirit.  The  unscrupulous  selfishness 
of  the  petty  princes,  who  had  cynically  abandoned 
even  the  semblance  of  virtue,  had  its  harsh  counter- 
part in  the  condition  of  the  common  people,  where 
ignorance  was  linked  with  despair.  With  political 
and  social  affairs  on  such  a  level,  the  standard  of 
literature  was  flat.  For  if  literature  is  the  Ufe  of 
history,  how  can  we  have  activity  in  the  former 
when  the  latter  is  dead  ?  How  can  the  spirit  of 
healthy  and  vigorous  life  breathe  out  of  decay? 

277 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

There  was  no  literature,  because  there  was  no 
soil  from  which  literature  might  spring.  War 
had  smitten  the  earth  with  a  curse,  and  Germany 
was  the  abomination  of  desolation. 

In  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
German  literature  got  a  false  start.  The  best  men 
of  letters  seemed  to  believe  that  the  only  way  to 
accomplish  successful  results  was  to  follow  the 
French.  Even  the  mother  tongue  was  despised, 
her  most  cultivated  sons  speaking  a  language  that 
sounded  more  polite.  Everything  that  could  act 
as  a  check  on  creative  activity  was  in  full  opera- 
tion. Art  was  tongue-tied  by  authority.  Pedants 
had  made  a  beaten  path,  which  must  be  followed 
by  aspirants  to  literary  fame.  Gottsched,  the 
literary  autocrat,  professing  himself  to  be  wise, 
became  a  fool.  With  the  perversity  of  all  scholars 
whose  learning  exceeds  their  wisdom,  Gottsched 
attempted  to  force  a  native  literature  into  a  for- 
eign mould  ;  and  he  was  worshipped  as  an  oracle. 
It  was  the  dark  hour  before  the  dawn. 

Lessing  has  been  well  called  the  Luther  of  Ger- 
man drama.  As  the  great  Protestant  released 
men  from  the  bondage  of  forms  and  ceremonies, 
so  Lessing,  by  rebelling  against  the  tyranny  of 
French  rules  of  art,  showed  his  countrymen,  both 
by  precept  and  by  practice,  what  a  national 
drama  should  be.     Luther  attacked  Rome :  Les- 

278 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

sing  attacked  Paris.  The  criticisms  of  poetry  and 
painting  in  the  Laokoon,  and  the  dramatic  theories 
expounded  and  developed  in  the  Hamhurgische 
Dramaturgie  opened  up  far  vistas  of  thought  and 
imagination,  and  roused  to  life  all  the  sleeping 
energies  of  the  German  mind.  These  books 
made  epochs.  The  Laokoon  revealed  the  beauty  of 
Greek  art  and  literature  in  their  simple  grandeur ; 
the  Dramaturgie  struck  off  forever  the  shackles 
with  which  the  French  had  bound  poetry  and  the 
drama.  These  works  prepared  the  way  for  that 
great  burst  of  splendour  which  brightened  the 
whole  world. 

It  is  not  easy  to  exaggerate  the  difficulties  with 
which  Lessing  had  to  contend.  As  Mr.  Lowell 
said,  "He  began  his  career  at  a  period  when  we 
cannot  say  that  German  literature  was  at  its  low- 
est ebb,  only  because  there  had  not  yet  been  any 
flood-tide."  Lessing  saw  that  before  he  could 
build,  the  French  superstructure  must  be  ruth- 
lessly destroyed.  To  attack  Gottsched  and  his 
followers  was  to  attack  the  Supreme  Court,  but 
Lessing  did  not  hesitate.  In  addition  to  the  great 
obstacle  formed  by  the  consensus  of  men  of  letters, 
Lessing  felt  the  chill  of  penury,  which  in  other 
men  has  repressed  the  noble  rage.  His  life  was  a 
constant  struggle  with  poverty.  The  King,  who 
professed   friendship   for   authors   as   ardently   as 

279 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

politicians  profess  love  for  the  workingman,  was 
strangely  blind  to  the  new  literary  movement. 
Frederic  saw  no  potential  energy  in  German  litera- 
ture. The  French  and  Italian  theatres  at  Berlin 
were  handsomely  supported  by  the  crown;  the 
German  theatre  was  a  booth  on  the  street.  The 
King  was  an  enthusiastic  student  of  French  litera- 
ture ;  he  even  attempted  to  add  to  it ;  he  wor- 
shipped Voltaire  while  hating  him;  but  he  did 
nothing  for  Lessing. 

Lessing's  nature  shows  the  rare  union  of  two 
elements  —  he  had  all  the  fiery  zeal  of  the  reformer 
with  the  deep  insight  of  a  thoroughly  disciplined 
mind.  He  seems  to  have  seen  clearly  the  actual 
possibilities  of  the  future;  and  he  never  faltered 
in  his  purpose  to  make  it  the  present.  Added  to 
his  natural  wisdom  and  strong  common-sense, 
he  was  a  sound  scholar,  especially  in  the  literature 
and  art  of  the  ancients.  With  the  rich  material 
of  Greek  literature  at  his  full  command,  he  deter- 
mined to  lay  a  foundation  for  the  German  classical 
movement.  He  recognised  what  no  other  man  of 
his  time  had  seen,  that  the  French,  who  claimed 
to  be  in  apostolic  succession  from  Aristotle,  were 
really  out  of  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  master. 
They  were  enclosed  in  self-made  walls,  and  could 
not  see  anything  beyond  those  narrow  limits. 
They  abhorred  Shakespeare  as  the  Greeks  abhorred 

280 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

the  barbarians.  But  Lessing  was  convinced  not 
merely  that  Shakespeare  was  greater  than  the 
French  dramatists,  but  that  he  was  in  spirit  a 
truer  follower  of  Aristotle.  To  Lessing  belongs 
primarily  the  honour  of  making  Shakespeare  a 
famihar  name  in  Germany.  Weisse  had  trans- 
lated some  of  Shakespeare's  plays;  and  later 
Wieland  made  translations,  and  Augustus  Schlegel 
in  his  Vienna  lectures  interpreted  the  glories  of 
the  great  Englishman ;  but  Lessing  introduced 
Shakespeare  to  the  popular  heart.  Gottsched 
declared  that  the  way  to  produce  a  work  of  genius 
was  to  follow  the  rules.  Lessing  studied  what 
genius  had  done,  to  discover  the  principle  of  suc- 
cess. He  wrote  one  sentence  that  gives  the  key 
to  his  critical  work.  "Much  would  in  theory  ap- 
pear unanswerable,  if  the  achievements  of  genius 
had  not  proved  the  contrary." 

Lessing  determined  to  make  his  countrymen 
understand  that  German  drama  could  not  walk 
naturally  on  French  stilts.  By  regarding  French 
tragedy  as  the  only  model,  the  way  to  a  knowledge 
and  appreciation  of  Shakespeare  was  hopelessly 
closed :  and  the  free  spirit  of  Shakespeare  was 
needed  in  Germany  as  the  very  breath  of  life. 
Lessing  showed  that  there  could  be  a  great  Ger- 
man literature;  he  showed  it  in  two  ways.  He 
proved  it  in  theory  by  his  unanswerable  criticisms, 

281 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

and  he  proved  it  in  practice  by  composing  two 
masterpieces  of  dramatic  construction,  Minna  von 
Barnhelm  and  Emilia  Galotti. 

Minna  von  Barnhelm  was  the  first  German 
comedy  of  any  importance ;  though  I  do  not 
agree  with  the  common  statement  that  it  is  the 
best  in  the  language.  It  is,  however,  Lessing's 
greatest  play,  and  is  to-day  on  the  German  stage 
more  popular  than  ever.  It  seems  to  survive  all 
changes  in  taste,  to  delight  every  generation.  For 
technically  it  is  almost  flawless ;  and  its  characters 
move  and  speak  with  the  authority  of  flesh  and 
blood.  The  development  of  the  plot  is  the  despair 
of  many  dramatists.  The  scenes  succeed  each 
other  in  logical  order,  and  the  unity  of  the  piece 
as  a  work  of  art  —  the  only  unity  for  which  Lessing 
had  any  reverence  —  is  sustained.  Its  humour  is 
irresistible,  but  is  like  its  author  in  being  robust 
rather  than  delicate  and  subtile.  Lessing's  ob- 
servations during  the  Seven  Years'  War  gave  him 
abundance  of  material  for  Minna,  and  the  play 
came  at  the  right  moment  to  awaken  popular 
enthusiasm. 

Emilia  Galotti  is  a  tragedy  full  of  native  power 
and  occasionally  rising  to  a  high  pitch  of  dramatic 
intensity,  as  in  the  dialogue  between  Claudia  and 
Marinelli  in  the  third  act,  where  the  words  are 
repeated  with  cumulative  effect,  Der  Name  Mari- 

282 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

nelli  war  das  letzte  Wort  des  sterbenden  Graf  en  I  Like 
Minna,  the  play  is  well  constructed,  but  it  is  not 
so  great  in  tragedy  as  the  other  is  in  humour.  The 
character  of  the  heroine  is  not  naturally  consist- 
ent ;  and  the  gravest  dramatic  fault  is  committed 
in  there  being  no  sufficient  cause  to  bring  about  the 
climax.  Yet  with  all  its  defects,  Emilia  Galotti 
has  the  stamp  of  genius,  and  I  have  seen  it  rouse  a 
German  audience  to  enthusiasm.  It  revolutionised 
German  tragedy,  and  by  indicating  correct  methods 
of  dramatic  composition,  it  became  an  inspiration 
for  greater  plays  that  followed.  For  the  first  time, 
the  German  people  possessed  a  fine  tragedy  in 
their  own  tongue.  No  one  will  question  the  truth 
of  Kuno  Fischer's  statement,  that  Emilia  Galotti 
was  die  Geburt  der  modernen  deutschen  Tragodie. 

But  Lessing  was  not  a  creative  genius  of  the 
first  order.  His  dramatic  pieces  all  smell  of  the 
lamp.  His  plays  are  constructed  rather  than 
created.  How  totally  different,  in  this  respect,  is 
Emilia  Galotti  from  Macbeth!  And  Lessing's  other 
dramas  are  not  ideal.  In  Miss  Sara  Sampson  he 
showed  that  the  playwright  need  not  confine  him- 
self to  court  scenes  and  noble  personages,  —  an 
opinion  which  it  is  needless  to  say  was  current 
at  that  time.  This  play  was  once  popular  in 
Germany;  but  it  is  too  close  an  imitation  of 
English  melodrama ;    it  is  characterised  by   the 

283 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

English  love  of  cheap  moralising  and  is  lachrymose 
enough  to  satisfy  the  most  sentimental  reader; 
it  is  also  artificial,  sags  heavily  in  places,  while 
some  scenes  are  positively  dull.  The  character 
Marwood  is  apparently  from  the  original  Mill- 
wood in  the  English  play  George  Barnwell,  a 
play  that  once  had  a  fabulous  reputation,  but 
which  one  reads  nowadays  with  a  yawn  and  a 
smile.  .  .  .  Lessing's  great  work,  Nathan  der 
Weise,  though  cast  in  a  dramatic  form,  and  though 
still  produced  on  the  German  stage,  is  a  philo- 
sophical poem  rather  than  a  drama,  and  does  not 
strictly  fall  under  the  present  subject  of  discussion. 
It  expresses  the  religious  tolerance  as  well  as  the 
reverence  of  its  author,  being  written  immediately 
after  Lessing's  bitter  controversies  with  Pastor 
Goeze  and  others. 

The  chief  reason  why  Lessing's  plays  are  so  un- 
satisfactory is  because  he  was  no  poet.  Many  of 
his  admirers  would  make  him  one,  but  the  effort 
is  vain.  His  nature  was  of  too  logical  a  cast,  too 
strongly  marked  by  shrewd  common-sense,  to 
vibrate  sympathetically  to  poetic  inspiration. 
The  phases  of  human  nature  reflected  in  his  dramas 
we  often  recognise  as  true  pictures ;  but  there  are 
elements  of  character  he  never  reflects  at  all.  He 
strikes  the  chords  with  a  firm  and  true  touch,  but 
he   does   not   sound    the   deepest   notes.     In   his 

284 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

hatred  of  obscurity  he  perhaps  failed  to  appreciate 
the  power  of  mystery.  If  his  characters  are  sad, 
we  always  know  why ;  if  they  are  passionate,  the 
cause  is  as  plain  as  the  result.  Lessing's  plays 
do  not  probe  deeply  into  the  mystery  of  life.  A 
nameless  melancholy,  a  heart-consuming  yet  vague 
passion,  such  as  is  portrayed  in  Faust,  was  appar- 
ently beyond  the  range  of  Lessing's  powers. 

But  Lessing  the  critic  is  a  greater  man  than 
Lessing  the  playwright.  The  latter  arouses  our 
admiration  but  rarely  our  enthusiasm ;  the  former 
keeps  us  in  perpetual  surprise  by  the  penetration 
of  his  thought  and  the  charm  of  his  style.  The 
world  has  seen  better  dramas  than  Lessing's  best ; 
but  I  should  hesitate  to  name  his  superior  as  a 
critic.  May  we  not  explain  his  inferiority  as  a 
dramatist  in  the  same  manner  in  which  he  accounted 
for  Shakespeare's  mediocrity  as  an  actor  ?  "  Wenn 
Shakespeare  nicht  ein  eben  so  grosser  Schauspieler 
in  der  Ausiibung  gewesen  ist,  als  er  ein  dramatischer 
Dichter  war,  so  hat  er  doch  wenigstens  eben  so  gut 
gewusst,  was  zu  der  Kunst  des  einen,  als  was  zu 
der  Kunst  des  andern  gehort.  Ja,  vielleicht  hatte 
er  uber  die  Kunst  des  erstern  um  so  viel  tiefer 
nachgedacht,  weil  er  so  viel  weniger  Genie  dazu 
hatte,"  and  then  he  comments  upon  the  excellent 
wisdom  of  Hamlet's  speech  to  the  players.  A 
similar  thought  may  be  applied  to  Lessing;    per- 

285 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

haps  his  reflections  on  the  playwright's  art  were 
the  more  profound,  because  he  had  so  much  less 
genius  for  it  than  for  dramatic  criticism.  In 
battles  of  logic,  he  marshals  his  arguments  with 
the  skill  of  an  experienced  general.  He  uses  the 
same  plan  that  the  great  Theban  introduced  into 
military  tactics :  he  selects  a  weak  point  in  the 
array  of  the  antagonist,  and  by  concentrating  the 
mass  of  his  strength  at  that  place,  the  whole  line 
of  his  enemy  appears  in  confusion.  The  orderly 
ranks  of  his  sentences  move  like  an  army  in  the 
sunshine,  all  bristling  with  the  keen  and  polished 
weapons  of  his  wit  and  satire. 

The  Laokoon,  in  which  Lessing  showed  that  the 
laws  governing  poetry  and  painting  are  not  iden- 
tical, was  the  work  which  first  revealed  its  author's 
critical  genius.  In  the  course  of  his  reasoning, 
he  made  clear  the  superiority  of  Greek  literature 
over  the  Latin.  Men  turned  anew  to  Homer  and 
Sophocles,  and  read  the  great  poets  in  the  strong 
light  of  Lessing's  mind.  The  effect  produced  on 
German  literature  was  incalculable.  Descriptive 
poetry  had  been  the  most  common  and  the  most 
admired :   it  scarcely  survived  the  Laokoon. 

But  the  Hamhurgische  Dramaturgie  —  the  dra- 
matic papers  written  for  the  Hamburg  theatre  — 
is  the  most  important  .critical  work  of  Lessing's ; 
and  it  may  not  be  impertinent  to  review  briefly 

286 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

the  circumstances  which  called  it  into  existence. 
Before  the  opening  of  the  great  play-house  at 
Hamburg  in  1767  there  were  no  standard  German 
theatres ;  the  performances  were  given  by  strolling 
players,  who  travelled  from  town  to  town,  and 
played  wherever  they  saw  an  opportunity  to  win 
the  daily  bread.  The  nature  of  the  pieces  they  pre- 
sented and  their  methods  of  acting  were  necessarily 
determined  by  the  prospect  of  pecuniary  reward. 
Owing  to  the  adulation  of  the  French  by  the  cul- 
tured classes,  the  common  people  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  nothing  but  horse-play  and  clown  filth. 
The  tireless  though  misguided  efforts  of  Gottsched 
had  slightly  raised  the  ideal,  and  for  this  German 
literature  surely  owes  him  something;  but  the 
popular  idea  of  a  good  play  was  exceedingly  low. 
Some  of  the  leading  citizens  of  Hamburg  de- 
termined to  have  in  that  city  a  national  theatre, 
where  a  stock  company  of  first-rate  players  should 
present  only  plays  combining  dramatic  excellence 
with  high  moral  tone.  An  invitation  was  sent 
to  Lessing  to  act  as  theatrical  critic;  they  seem 
also  to  have  expected  that  he  would  write  plays 
for  special  production.  In  the  spring  of  1767 
the  theatre  was  opened,  but  before  two  years  had 
passed  the  project  was  abandoned,  owing  to  jeal- 
ousies among  the  actors  and  to  popular  disapproval 
of  the  severity  of  the  moral  tone. 

287 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Thus  in  one  sense  the  attempt  to  support  a 
standard  theatre  at  Hamburg  was  a  disheartening 
failure.  But  from  a  broader  view  it  was  a  per- 
manent blessing  to  the  Hterature  of  Europe.  It 
brought  into  existence  the  Hamhurgische  Drama- 
turgie.  Lessing  began  these  papers  with  criticisms 
of  the  acting  as  well  as  of  the  plays;  but  after  a 
number  of  visits  from  irate  actresses,  he  abandoned 
this  part  of  his  task.  Lessing  had  in  view  two  great 
objects.  He  meant  to  destroy  utterly  the  suprem- 
acy of  the  French  drama  and  to  prove  that  their 
rules  were  not,  as  they  had  claimed,  the  rules  of  the 
ancients;  and  in  the  second  place  to  create  a  German 
drama  by  expounding  in  the  most  liberal  manner 
the  true  Greek  ideals.  He  was  eminently  fitted  for 
this  great  undertaking.  His  learning  and  command 
of  it  were  phenomenal,  and  constantly  surprised  his 
contemporaries ;  his  dramatic  experience  had  been 
wide  and  varied,  and  the  critical  bent  of  his  mind 
had  been  trained  to  perfection  by  his  studies  in  the 
history  and  theory  of  aesthetics. 

His  attack  on  the  French  theatre  was  fierce 
and  unsparing.  The  general  worship  of  the 
French  provoked  him  to  the  highest  degree ;  but 
it  was  an  inspiration.  No  man  ever  enjoyed  a 
literary  fight  more  than  Lessing.  Voltaire,  in  his 
capacity  as  a  playwright,  was  a  shining  target  for 
Lessing's  shafts  of  wit;    and  his  plays  were  high 

288 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

in  fashion.  To  an  acute  and  hostile  critic  they 
presented  many  vubierable  points;  and  Lessing 
seldom  missed.  His  famous  comparison  in  his 
eleventh  paper  between  the  Ghost  in  Hamlet  and 
the  Ghost  in  Semiramis  was  a  master  stroke,  and 
was  enough  to  ruin  the  reputation  of  Voltaire's 
play.  The  genius  resplendent  in  the  comedies  of 
Moliere  Lessing  fully  recognised.  Upon  Corneille, 
however,  he  made  many  vigorous  charges.  He 
proved  that  stickler  for  artistic  rules  to  be  a  truant 
from  Aristotle.  Lessing  accepted  the  Greek  theory 
that  the  aim  of  tragedy  is  to  excite  pity  (Mitleid) 
and  fear  (Schauder)  ;  and  he  showed  that  the  fear 
is  not  for  the  characters,  but  for  ourselves.  The 
French  had  substituted  terror  for  both  of  these 
emotions ;  and  Corneille  had  so  far  misinterpreted 
Aristotle  and  misunderstood  his  theory  of  the 
drama  as  to  imagine  that  either  of  these  emotions 
by  itself  was  sufficient  for  a  tragedy. 

Lessing's  destructive  criticism  was  effective 
even  beyond  his  hopes :  it  destroyed  Gallic  in- 
fluence on  the  German  stage.  Schlegel,  in  his 
Vienna  lectures,  made  a  passing  allusion  in  1808 
which  shows  how  completely  the  work  had  been 
done.  "  When  the  Dramaturgie  was  published, 
we  Germans  had  scarcely  any  but  French  tragedies 
on  our  stages,  and  the  extravagant  predilection 
for  them  as  classical  models  had  not  then  been 
V  289 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

combated.  At  present  the  national  taste  has 
declared  itself  so  decidedly  against  them,  that  we 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  that  quarter." 

But  the  essential  aim  of  Lessing's  criticisms  was 
not  to  tear  down,  but  to  build  up ;  it  was  well 
worth  while  to  clear  the  ground  of  rubbish;  but 
only  that  a  good  superstructure  might  be  built  on 
the  right  foundation.  Lessing's  work  was  not 
half  done  when  he  had  revealed  the  mistakes  of 
the  French ;  he  then  developed  his  own  theories 
of  dramatic  art,  based  on  a  free  interpretation  of 
Aristotle.  In  his  discussions  of  the  three  unities 
—  which  will  never  trouble  us  any  more  —  he 
exhibited  his  common-sense  as  well  as  his  pro- 
found learning.  These  unities  had  been  a  stum- 
bling-block to  the  French.  They  insisted  that  by 
the  unity  of  time  was  meant  a  day  of  twenty-four 
hours;  and  that  the  unity  of  place  required  that 
the  spot  where  the  drama  opened  must  suffer  no 
change  till  the  final  curtain.  Corneille  had  racked 
his  brains  over  the  unity  of  time  until  he  made  the 
discovery  that  the  dramatic  day  should  last  thirty 
hours;  a  rather  arbitrary  limit,  adopted  for  per- 
sonal convenience.  Lessing  insisted  that  Aris- 
totle never  intended  to  lay  down  hard  and  fast 
lines  for  the  unities  of  time  and  place.  They  were 
observed  in  the  Greek  drama,  owing  to  the  presence 
of  the  Chorus,  which  could  not  be  well  conceived 

290 


LESSING    AS    A    CREATIVE    CRITIC 

to  appear  at  times  far  apart  or  in  distant  places; 
but  that  the  master  meant  to  make  an  absolute 
dictum  for  all  time  to  come,  Lessing  declared  was 
absurd.  The  only  unity  necessarily  required  in 
every  dramatic  piece  was  the  unity  of  action, 
which  means  simply  logical  unity;  the  scenes 
must  succeed  each  other  in  an  orderly  fashion, 
and  every  event  must  follow  the  law  of  causation. 
By  clearing  up  this  subject,  Lessing  laid  a  broad 
foundation  for  the  German  theatre. 

Lessing's  discussion  of  the  great  question, 
Should  there  be  an  ethical  purpose  in  the  drama  ? 
shows  how  truly  philosophical  was  his  conception 
of  dramatic  art.  Few  who  seriously  reflect  on 
the  subject  to-day  will  maintain  that  a  tragedy 
ought  to  teach  a  direct  moral  lesson ;  but  in  Les- 
sing's time  contemporary  thought  gave  to  this 
question  an  unhesitating  affirmative.  The  moral 
hitched  on  to  the  end  of  tragedies  was  regarded 
as  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  whole  play.  Voltaire 
boasted  that  in  his  Semiramis  horrible  deeds  were 
punished  in  extraordinary  ways.  Lessing  proved 
such  an  idea  to  be  a  fundamental  error.  He  argued 
that  the  effect  was  more  powerful  when  crime  and 
punishment  were  bound  up  together  in  a  natural 
chain  of  events.  His  view  of  the  working  of 
natural  law  in  the  drama  is  of  course  in  harmony 
with  our  modern  spirit. 

291 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Lessing's  idea  of  the  relation  between  the  drama 
and  historical  truth  was  far  ahead  of  his  time ;  it 
fairly  staggered  the  German  literary  public.  Many 
had  expressed  the  opinion  —  many  still  express  it 
—  that  the  poet  in  his  representation  of  past  events 
must  strictly  follow  history.  Lessing  showed  that 
there  was  no  reasonable  ground  for  such  a  notion ; 
the  dramatist  might  be  faithful  to  history  in  his 
characters,  otherwise  there  would  be  no  assignable 
reason  for  their  appellation.  But  in  minor  matters 
the  poet  must  be  free  to  arrange  the  details  of  his 
plot,  so  long  as  they  are  consistent  and  have  the 
appearance  of  truth.  He  wisely  remarked,  "  Er 
braucht  eine  Geschichte  nicht  darum,  weil  sie 
geschehen  ist,  sondern  darum,  weil  sie  so  geschehen 
ist,  dass  er  sie  schwerlich  zu  seinem  gegenwartigen 
Zwecke  besser  erdichten  konnte."  Lessing  also 
strongly  combated  the  theory  that  one  aim  of  the 
drama  was  to  preserve  the  memory  of  great  men, 
showing  the  narrowness  of  such  a  conception,  and 
its  cramping  effect  on  the  production  of  plays. 
''  Die  Absicht  der  Tragodie  ist  weit  philosophischer 
als  die  Absicht  der  Geschichte:  und  es  heisst  sie 
von  ihrer  wahren  Wiirde  herabsetzen,  wenn  man 
sie  zu  einem  blossen  Panegyrikus  beriihmter 
Manner  macht,  oder  sie  gar  den  Nationalstolz  zu 
nahren  missbraucht."  He  concluded  this  subject 
with  the  remark  that  poetic  truth  is  of  more  im- 

292 


LESSING    AS     A     CREATIVE    CRITIC 

portance  than  historical  truth  in  giving  us  a  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature ;  in  the  works  of  the  great 
masters  of  tragedy  we  see  reflected  more  clearly 
than  anywhere  else  the  character  of  man. 

Lessing's  influence  on  English  literature  has  not 
been  notable.  We  did  not  need  him  so  acutely. 
It  was  through  the  Dramaturgie  that  he  began  to 
impress  literary  Europe,  but  he  was  not  well 
known  in  England  before  1830.  His  influence  on 
English  drama  in  the  nineteenth  century  might 
have  been  great  had  there  been  anything  to  in- 
fluence. But  there  was  no  real  dramatic  move- 
ment in  England  until  the  close  of  the  century; 
and  by  that  time  Lessing's  ideas  had  become 
largely  axiomatic.  But  the  English-speaking 
people  ought  to  feel  a  special  interest  in  the  life 
and  work  of  Lessing;  he  was  greatly  influenced 
by  English  models ;  and  his  criticisms  of  Shake- 
speare are  not  the  least  valuable  part  of  his  writings. 

Lessing's  style  was  like  the  man :  straightfor- 
ward, virile,  combative,  sometimes  sarcastic,  yet 
always  betraying  great  depths  of  sympathy. 
Every  line  he  wrote  has  the  ring  of  sincerity.  In 
a  letter  to  his  father  he  said,  "If  I  write  at  all,  it 
is  not  possible  for  me  to  write  otherwise  than  as 
I  think  and  feel."  These  heartening  words  are 
the  echo  of  his  life.  To  Lessing  the  pursuit  of 
truth  was  not  a  duty ;  it  was  a  passion.     Narrow- 

293 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

ness  and  intolerance  were  hateful  to  him,  and 
insincerity  was  the  unpardonable  sin.  He  loved 
truth  because  he  could  not  help  loving  it,  and  it 
made  his  blood  boil  to  see  truth  distorted  and  used 
to  advertise  false  ideas.  He  had  that  freedom 
from  prejudice  which  characterises  every  great 
critic.  But  he  was  preeminently  a  man  of  strong 
convictions. 


294 


xn 

SCHILLER'S  PERSONALITY  AND 
INFLUENCE 

Schiller  was  born  at  Marbach  on  the  tenth  of 
November  1759,  the  birthday  of  Martin  Luther 
and  the  birthyear  of  Robert  Burns.  It  is  one  of 
nature's  rare  felicities  that  Burns  and  Schiller 
should  have  entered  the  world  together,  since 
each  was  destined  to  enrich  lyrical  poetry  and 
to  stand  forever  as  a  fiery  advocate  of  the  claims 
of  the  heart  against  the  conventions  of  society. 
Friedrich  was  intended  by  his  parents  for  the 
ministry,  but  as  he  developed  he  passed  through 
the  intellectual  struggle  eternally  symptomatic 
of  youth,  which  resulted  for  him  in  the  complete 
rout  of  theological  dogma  and  the  abandonment 
of  clerical  ambition.  In  January  1773,  he  was 
sent  to  the  military  school  at  Castle  Solitude, 
founded  and  controlled  by  the  capricious  Duke  of 
Wiirtemberg.  To  boys  of  independence  this  in- 
stitution resembled  a  jail  rather  than  an  academy ; 
the  rigour  of  its  discipline  seemed  galling  in  its 
pettiness,  and  its  curriculum  dull  and  harsh.  Its 
unintentional  effect  on  the  boy's  theories  of  politi- 
cal and  social  liberty  was  profound  and  permanent. 

29s 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

His  personal  appearance  was  as  unconventional 
as  his  ideas.  He  was  rough,  uncouth,  unrein, 
his  very  hair  a  flag  of  revolt,  so  that  many  times 
when  he  appeared  at  the  breakfast  table  the  boys 
exclaimed,  "Aber,  Fritz,  wie  siehst  du  wieder 
aus?" 

"Stung  by  the  splendour  of  a  sudden  thought," 
he  would  often  leap  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
to  read  and  write.  Stumbling  clumsily  over 
furniture,  he  would  arouse  his  sleeping  school- 
mates and  add  more  to  his  knowledge  than  to  his 
popularity.  Most  of  the  boys  regarded  him  as  a 
freak,  but  he  naturally  had  a  few  dear  and  intimate 
friends.  He  was  a  sentimental,  morbid  young 
German,  and  he  wrote:  "  I  am  not  yet  twenty-one 
years  old,  but  I  can  tell  you  frankly  that  the  world 
has  no  further  charm  for  me.  .  .  .  The  nearer 
I  come  to  the  age  of  maturity,  the  more  I  could 
wish  that  I  had  died  in  childhood."  He  never 
had  anything  of  Goethe's  repose.  One  of  his 
schoolmates  said,  "Sein  Geist  rastete  nie  —  stand 
nie  still  —  sondern  suchte  immer  vorwarts  zu 
schreiten."  Thoroughly  characteristic  even  then 
was  his  fierce  rebellion  against  the  ruling  powers. 
As  Professor  Chuquet  says:  "Charles  Moor 
est  plus  tragique  que  Goetz :  I'un  combat  les 
eveques  et  les  princes :  I'autre  combat  I'ordre 
social  tout  en  tier." 

296 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

His  reading  at  school  and  in  his  early  years  in- 
fluenced him  deeply,  the  books  that  produced  the 
greatest  effect  being  Werther,  Gotz,  Ossian,  Klop- 
stock,  Plutarch,  Shakespeare,  and  Rousseau.  In 
Schiller's  literary  activity,  as  in  that  of  every  other 
influential  writer  since  1775,  we  can  trace  many 
things  back  to  Jean  Jacques,  who  is  perhaps  the 
source  of  more  literary,  political,  and  social  move- 
ments than  any  other  writer  of  modern  times. 

While  he  was  at  school  he  secretly  wrote  his  first 
play,  The  Robbers.  After  leaving  the  academy 
he  borrowed  money  and  published  the  work  at  his 
own,  or  rather  at  his  friend's  expense,  in  the  spring 
of  1 781.  Many  things  in  this  play  seem  absurd 
to-day,  and  one  must  not  forget  the  remark  of 
the  German  prince  to  Goethe:  "If  I  had  been 
God  and  about  to  create  the  world,  and  had  I 
foreseen  that  Schiller  would  write  The  Robbers 
in  it,  I  would  not  have  created  it."  Still  the 
appearance  of  this  drama  is  one  of  the  events  in 
the  history  of  literature.  It  was  a  genuine  erup- 
tion of  the  Sturm  und  Drang,  and  in  its  wild  pas- 
sion it  expressed  and  relieved  the  overcharged 
heart  of  Germany.  Kuno  Fischer  said,  "Sein 
erstes  Selbstbekenntnis  sind  Die  Rduber,  sein 
letztes  Die  Kiinstler.^'  The  difference  between  the 
two  is  really  more  a  difference  of  intellectual  de- 
velopment than  any  actual  change.    The  words 

297 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

in  Schiller's  Kunstler,  beginning  "  Mich  halt  kein 
Band, "  reveal  the  same  man  who  wrote  Die  Rduher. 

When  Schiller  left  the  academy  in  1780,  he  was 
not  much  better  off.  He  received  an  appointment 
as  surgeon  to  a  regiment  of  soldiers  at  Stuttgart, 
and  was  compelled  to  wear  a  military  uniform, 
which  seemed  to  him  as  degrading  as  a  livery 
Having  endured  this  hateful  routine  till  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  he  fled  with  a  helpful  friend  to 
Mannheim.  This  was  in  September  1782.  Pro- 
fessor A.  H.  Palmer  has  pointed  out  that  from  this 
time  on  Schiller  was  generally  dependent  on  others 
for  the  necessary  resources.  It  has  become  a 
commonplace  to  say  that  Goethe  was  selfish  and 
Schiller  unselfish;  but  with  due  regard  to  Schiller's 
noble  altruism,  he,  like  many  idealists  and  reformers, 
was  chronically  unable  to  pay  his  bills.  His  was 
the  particular  kind  of  genius  that  required  support. 

In  the  spring  of  1784  appeared  Schiller's  second 
notable  play,  Kahale  und  Liehe.  This  was  another 
plea  for  the  individual  against  the  hypocrisy  and 
tyranny  of  social  convention,  Kuno  Fischer  will 
have  it  that  the  young  lover  is  Schiller  himself. 
"Ferdinand  ist  des  Dichters  Spiegelbild."  The 
last  scene  of  this  tragedy  on  the  stage  to-day  is 
sometimes  greeted  with  unrestrained  guffaws. 
Lemonade  as  a  beverage  has  its  merits,  but  it  lacks 
dignity. 

298 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

Sentimental  tragedy,  of  course,  came  from  Eng- 
land, making  its  first  important  appearance  there 
in  1732  in  the  play  George  Barnwell.  This  stream 
of  sentimentality  was  enormously  swollen  by  the 
novels  of  Richardson  and  by  the  genius  of  Rousseau, 
and  in  Germany  is  not  yet  dry.  Lessing,  in  his 
play,  Miss  Sara  Sampson  (1755),  shows  the  direct 
influence  of  England ;  and  Schiller  learned  much 
from  Lessing. 

In  1787  appeared  Don  Carlos,  which  made  the 
poet's  reputation  far  more  secure  than  the  wild 
excrescences  of  Die  Rauber  and  Kabale  und  Liehe. 
Here  again  Schiller  reincarnated  himself.  All  the 
despair,  romantic  passion,  and  vain  longings  of 
the  prince  are  Schiller's  own,  as  any  one  may  see 
by  reading  the  dramatist's  letters  of  this  period. 
The  fact  that  the  friend  of  Carlos  cheerfully  dies 
for  him  perhaps  adds  to  the  reality  of  the  portrait. 
With  all  its  serious  faults  in  technique,  Don  Carlos 
is  a  noble  dramatic  poem  and  one  of  the  imperish- 
able glories  of  German  literature.  Nor  is  it  in- 
effective on  the  modern  stage. 

In  1 791  Schiller's  health  broke  down,  and  the 
great  works  of  the  next  fourteen  years  were  written 
under  circumstances  of  cruel  pain  and  physical 
weakness,  while  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  poet 
remained  as  bold  and  exalted  as  ever,  betraying 
no  trace  of  the  malady  that  was  steadily  destroy- 

299 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

ing  his  vitality.  We  echo  the  cry  of  Carlyle: 
"O  Schiller,  what  secret  hadst  thou  for  creating 
such  things  as  Max  and  Thekla,  when  thy  body 
was  wasting  with  disease?"  The  Wallenstein 
trilogy  with  its  superb  prologue  certainly  shows 
no  trace  of  decay.  Wallenstein^ s  Camp,  which 
exhibits  on  nearly  every  page  the  influence  of 
Goethe,  was  performed  at  Weimar  in  October  1798, 
the  Piccolomini  on  30  January  1799,  and  W alien- 
stein's  Death  on  20  April.  These  reestablished 
Schiller's  position  on  the  German  stage,  and  on 
the  flood-tide  of  his  genius  he  produced  Maria 
Stuart  in  1800,  and  the  Maid  oj  Orleans  in  1801. 
Actresses  in  many  nations  are  still  speaking  the 
lines  of  his  Queen  of  Scots,  and  I  regard  his  Joan 
of  Arc  as  the  most  purely  charming  of  all  his  crea- 
tions. I  dissent  from  the  common  verdict  that 
Joan's  falling  in  love  with  the  Englishman  is  a 
fatal  error;  I  particularly  admire  this  episode, 
because  it  gives  to  the  Inspired  Maid  the  irresisti- 
ble touch  of  nature.  Her  love  for  the  Englishman 
is  more  surely  divine  than  her  visions  of  angels. 
Could  anything  be  more  characteristic  of  the 
difference  between  the  French  and  the  German 
temperament  in  general,  and  between  that  of 
Voltaire  and  Schiller  in  particular,  than  their  re- 
spective treatment  of  this  wonderful  historical 
figure  ? 

300 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

In  1803  appeared  his  classic  drama  The  Bride  of 
Messina,  which  exhibits  his  passion  for  the  study 
of  Greek  aesthetics  and  his  powers  in  sustained 
poetry,  which  to  be  sure  is  at  times  dangerously 
near  declamation.  In  1804  came  his  last  and 
perennially  popular  work,  William  Tell.  The 
local  colour  of  this  astonishing  play  is  so  accurate 
that  it  seems  hardly  conceivable  that  Schiller  was 
not  personally  familiar  with  the  scenes  he  por- 
trayed; yet  they  were  the  results  of  his  reading 
and  particularly  of  his  conversations  with  Goethe. 
Twenty-eight  years  later  Goethe  said  to  Ecker- 
mann,  "Was  in  seinem  Tell  von  Schweizer  Lokali- 
tat  ist,  habe  ich  ihm  alles  erzahlt."  It  is  fitting 
and  natural  that  Schiller's  last  drama  should  be 
the  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  Liberty. 

Schiller  died  in  his  house  at  Weimar  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  ninth  of  May  1805.  No  one  dared 
tell  Goethe  until  the  next  day,  when  he  enquired, 
"Schiller  was  very  ill  yesterday,  was  he  not?" 
The  messenger  wept  and  Goethe  knew  the  truth. 

Schiller  had  first  arrived  at  the  village  of  Weimar, 
the  intellectual  capital  of  Germany,  on  21  July 
1787.  He  was  introduced  to  Goethe  on  7  Sep- 
tember 1788,  and  for  some  time  neither  man  sus- 
pected the  intimacy  that  was  to  crown  the  later 
years.  Their  first  impressions  were  mutually  un- 
pleasant, for  in  truth  they  were  as  unlike  as  Tur- 

301 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

genev  and  Tolstoi.  But  their  friendship  was  one 
of  the  best  things  that  ever  happened  to  both  men, 
one  of  the  best  things  that  ever  happened  to  Ger- 
man literature,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things 
to  contemplate  in  the  history  of  humanity.  It  is 
impressive  to  stand  in  front  of  the  theatre  at 
Weimar,  to  gaze  at  the  splendid  statue  of  the  two 
friends,  and  then  to  visit  the  crypt  and  see  the  two 
coffins  side  by  side  that  hold  the  remains  of  the 
mighty  dead.  Lovely  and  pleasant  were  they  in 
their  lives,  and  in  death  they  are  not  divided.  .  .  . 
One  August  afternoon  I  stood  by  the  old  stone 
table  in  the  garden  at  Jena,  where  Goethe  and 
Schiller  used  to  sit  and  talk  together,  and  I  read 
the  inscription,  taken  from  the  words  spoken  to 
Eckermann  at  this  place  on  the  eighth  of  October 
1827:  '*  Sie  wissen  wohl  kaum,  an  welcher 
merkwiirdigen  S  telle  wir  uns  eigentlich  befinden. 
Hier  hat  Schiller  gewohnt.  In  dieser  Laube, 
auf  diesen  jetzt  fast  zusammengebrochenen  Banken 
haben  wir  oft  an  diesem  alten  Steintisch  gesessen 
und  manches  gute  und  grosse  Wort  miteinander 
gewechselt.  .  .  .  Das  geht  alles  hin  und  voriiber  : 
ich  bin  auch  nicht  mehr  der  ich  gewesen." 

The  comparison  between  Schiller  and  Goethe 
is  a  well-worn  theme.  Everyone  reahses  now 
that  Schiller  was  national,  and  Goethe  universal. 
Perhaps  the  difference  between  the  two  may  be 

.^02 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

more  definitely  expressed  by  saying  that  Goethe 
had  the  literary  temperament  and  Schiller  the 
rhetorical.  Schiller  was  ardent,  noble,  striving : 
Goethe  wise,  profound,  and  calm.  The  latter  called 
himself  a  Weltkind,  and  to  Schiller's  passionate  talk 
on  art  and  ethics,  I  seem  to  hear  Goethe  say : 

"  Grau,  teurer  Freund,  ist  alle  Theorie : 
Und  griin  des  Lebens  goldner  Baum." 

Schiller  had  the  defects  of  his  qualities,  as  is 
true  of  every  man,  and  to-day  among  the  young 
decadents  of  Germany  it  is  as  fashionable  to  despise 
Schiller  as  it  is  the  rule  to  despise  Longfellow  among 
the  literary  young  aspirants  in  America.  In  Otto 
Ernst's  brilliant  play,  Jugend  von  Heute,  one  of 
the  keenest  and  most  delightful  of  all  stingless 
satires,  we  are  introduced  to  a  charming  family 
table  where  the  honest  pater-familias  listens  with 
horror  to  the  conversation  between  his  son,  fresh 
from  the  university,  and  the  two  youthful  poseurs 
he  has  brought  home  with  him,  who  calmly  declare 
that  Schiller  is  no  longer  read  by  intelligent  people. 

Although  Schiller  received  from  English  litera- 
ture much  more  than  he  gave  to  it,  his  influence 
on  our  literature  both  in  England  and  in  America 
was  wide  and  deep.  At  the  end  of  the  eighteenth 
and  during  the  first  years  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury Schiller  as  a  dramatist  was  completely  over- 
303 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

shadowed  amongst  English-speaking  people  by 
the  resounding  fame  of  Kotzebue,  who  turned  out 
later  to  be  only  a  sham  giant.  Kotzebue  was 
called  the  "  German  Shakespeare,"  and  his  dramas 
were  read  and  acted  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic, 
producing  veritable  thrills.  In  the  United  States, 
between  1793  and  1814,  appeared  nine  translations 
of  Schiller,  two  of  Lessing,  and  over  fifty  of  Kot- 
zebue !  The  New  York  theatrical  manager.  Dun- 
lap,  was  so  excited  by  the  success  of  a  play  of 
Kotzebue's,  that  he  learned  German,  made  trans- 
lations, and  brought  out  both  Kotzebue  and  Schiller 
on  the  American  stage.  Dunlap  was  a  highly  in- 
telligent and  gifted  man,  who  did  his  best  to  give 
American  audiences  real  literature  on  the  stage. 
He  actually  took  more  interest  in  dramatic  poetry 
than  in  stage  spectacles. 

And  Schiller,  though  lacking  the  popularity  of 
Kotzebue,  was  by  no  means  unknown  to  English 
and  American  readers  during  these  years.  English 
versions  of  TJie  Robbers  appeared  at  London  in 
1792,  at  Philadelphia  1793,  at  Baltimore  1802; 
Fiesko,  London  1796,  Baltimore  1802  ;  Kabale  und 
Liebe,  London  1795,  1796,  1797,  Baltimore  1802; 
Don  Carlos,  London  1798;  W  aliens  kin,  1800; 
Piccolomini,  1805;  and  Maria  Stuart,  1801.  In 
the  Preface  to  the  EngHsh  translation  of  Don 
Carlos,  1798,  we  find,  **The  comparison  which  has 

304 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

been  made  between  him  and  our  own  Shakespeare 
is,  perhaps,  not  too  highly  exaggerated."  A  copy 
of  the  second  edition,  which  appeared  the  same 
year,  has  bound  up  with  it  (in  the  Hbrary  of  Yale 
University)  a  translation  of  Kotzebue's  Sacrifice 
oj  Love,  1799;  in  the  Preface  German  literature  is 
declared  to  be  superior  to  contemporary  English 
literature  (as  it  certainly  was) ;  and  then  we  find 
the  familiar  worship  of  Kotzebue.  He  is  ''Shake- 
speare without  his  quibbles,  his  negligences,  his 
incongruities,  his  violations  of  the  most  indispen- 
sable probabilities." 

In  1796  Coleridge  planned  to  translate  all  the 
works  of  Schiller;  on  16  September  1798,  in  com- 
pany with  Wordsworth,  he  sailed  for  Germany, 
and  remained  there  over  nine  months.  On  30 
September  1799,  in  England,  he  received  the 
manuscript  of  Piccolomini,  which  differed  some- 
what from  the  now  standard  text.  At  first  he  was 
impressed  not  at  all  favourably.  He  called  it  a 
"dull,  heavy  play,"  and  spoke  of  his  unutterable 
disgust  in  translating  it.  His  translation  was  not 
popular,  and  Carlyle  could  not  find  a  copy  in  1823- 
1824  when  writing  his  Life  of  Schiller.  Scott,  how- 
ever, said  that  Coleridge's  translation  was  greater 
than  the  original,  an  opinion  which  has  been  sup- 
ported by  some  English  critics  of  to-day. 

The  Preface  to  a  translation  of  The  Robbers, 
X  305 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

which  appeared  in  1795,  advertises  the  work  by 
saying,  "A  distinguishing  feature  of  this  piece  is  a 
certain  wildness  of  fancy."  This  was  in  the  flood- 
tide  of  English  Romanticism,  when  the  surest  road 
to  popularity  was  "wildness." 

Schiller  was  the  first  German  dramatic  poet  to 
appear  from  the  American  press,  with  the  notable 
exception  of  Lessing.  Miss  Sara  Sampson  was 
pubhshed  in  EngHsh  at  Philadelphia  in  1789, 
and  in  1793  appeared  The  Robbers.  The  first 
appearance  of  Kotzebue  in  America  was  as  late 
as  1799;  and  Scott's  translation  of  Goethe's  Gotz 
came  in  1814.  Schiller' s  rom?ince,  DerGeisterseher, 
was  pubhshed  in  EngHsh  at  London  in  1795  and 
at  New  York  in  1796,  and  apparently  influenced 
the  American  novelist,  Charles  Brockden  Brown, 
in  his  story  Wieland  (1798),  which  some  one  has 
called  the  first  important  original  fiction  written 
in  the  United  States. 

One  of  the  earliest  significant  critical  essays  on 
German  literature  that  appeared  anywhere  in 
Enghsh  was  a  long  article  in  the  North  American 
Review  for  April  1823,  two  years  before  Carlyle's 
Life  of  Schiller  was  pubHshed  at  London.  This 
was  a  review  of  Doring's  Schillers  Leben,  and 
developed  into  a  lengthy,  thoughtful  essay  on 
Schiller  and  German  literature.  Carlyle's  book, 
of  course,  exerted   a  powerful  influence,  and  he 

306 


SCHILLER'S     PERSONALITY 

was  one  of  the  elect  few  that  could  not  be  deceived 
by  the  glamour  of  Kotzebue.  Discussing  Kahale 
und  Liebe,  he  said,  "The  same  primary  conception 
has  been  tortured  into  a  thousand  shapes,  and 
tricked  out  with  a  thousand  petty  devices  and 
meretricious  ornaments,  by  the  Kotzebues,  and 
other  'intellectual  Jacobins,'  whose  productions 
have  brought  what  we  falsely  call  the  'German 
theatre'  into  such  deserved  contempt  in  England." 
Carlyle's  general  summary  of  Schiller  is  still  ac- 
cepted by  all  except  idolaters  or  calumniators  of 
the  poet:  "Sometimes  we  suspect  that  it  is  the 
very  grandeur  of  his  general  powers,  which  prevents 
us  from  exclusively  admiring  his  poetic  genius. 
We  are  not  lulled  by  the  syren  song  of  poetry, 
because  her  melodies  are  blended  with  the  clearer, 
manlier  tones  of  serious  reason,  and  of  honest 
though  exalted  feeling." 

One  of  the  most  important  books  that  was  both 
a  result  and  a  cause  of  the  influence  of  German 
literature  on  English  was  A  Historic  Survey  of 
German  Poetry,  in  three  volumes,  by  William 
Taylor  of  Norwich,  published  at  London  in  1830. 
The  Preface  is  dated  May  1828,  and  he  mentions 
there  that  he  has  been  for  a  long  time  engaged 
in  the  task  of  translating  German  poetry.  The 
work  devotes  124  pages  to  Kotzebue,  75  to  Schiller, 
and  138  to  Goethe,  who  was  yet  alive,  or,  as  Taylor 

307 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

states  it,  "He  continues  to  reside  there  (Weimar) 
a  bachelor,  in  dignified  affluence."  Taylor  did 
not  share  De  Quincey's  low  estimate  of  Goethe's 
powers,  and  Carlyle's  exposure  of  Kotzebue  had, 
alas,  not  convinced  him.  He  said,  however,  that 
Schiller's  historical  tragedies  were  equal  to  those 
of  Shakespeare,  and  of  William  Tell  he  remarked, 
"Indeed  it  may  be  doubted  whether  any  gothic 
tragedy  (we  do  not  except  Macbeth  or  the  Con- 
spiracy of  Venice)  is  equal  to  this  Tell  for  majesty 
of  topic,  for  compass  of  plan,  for  incessancy  of  in- 
terest, for  depth  of  pathos,  for  variety  of  character, 
for  domesticity  of  costume,  for  truth  of  nature,  and 
for  historic  fidelity." 

In  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica,  De  Quincey 
said  of  Schiller,  "For  us  who  are  aliens  to  Ger- 
many, Schiller  is  the  representative  of  the  German 
intellect  in  its  highest  form;  and  to  him,  at  all 
events,  whether  first  or  second,  it  is  certainly  due 
that  the  German  intellect  has  become  a  known 
power,  and  a  power  of  growing  magnitude  for  the 
great  commonwealth  of  Christendom."  Such  tes- 
timony at  that  time  is  historically  interesting. 

The  first  American  edition  of  Carlyle's  Life  of 
Schiller  appeared  in  1833.  In  the  July  number 
of  the  Christian  Examiner,  1834,  Dr.  F.  H.  Hedge 
reviewed  the  book,  and  this  led  to  a  number  of 
articles  on  Schiller,  Goethe,  and   German  litera- 

308 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

ture  in  general.  But  the  most  important  single 
work  was  probably  George  Ripley's  Specimens  oj 
Foreign  Standard  Literature,  nine  volumes,  Boston, 
1838-1842.  This  collection,  of  course,  contained 
selections  from  Schiller's  lyrics  and  dramas.  In 
1856  Dr.  Hedge  said  that  in  America  Schiller  was 
the  best  known,  ''or  least  misunderstood,"  of  all 
German  writers. 

Longfellow  had  an  exalted  opinion  of  Schiller, 
as  one  might  expect.  He  called  him  "by  far  the 
greatest  tragic  poet  of  Germany,"  and  admired 
the  "moral  elevation"  of  his  works.  It  is  gener- 
ally believed  that  the  Building  of  the  Ship  was 
influenced  by  the  Song  of  the  Bell.  The  poet 
Bryant  delivered  an  address  at  the  great  Schiller 
festival  in  New  York,  on  the  one  hundredth  anni- 
versary of  the  poet's  birth,  1859.  In  this  he  spoke 
particularly  of  Schiller  as  the  poet  of  freedom. 
This  address  was  translated  into  German  and  pub- 
lished in  the  Schiller  Denkmal,  Berlin,  i860,  which 
included  a  collection  of  centenary  addresses  made 
in  all  parts  of  the  world.  It  would  indeed  be  diffi- 
cult to  exaggerate  the  range  of  Schiller's  influence 
on  world  literature  and  world  politics.^ 

*  For  his  influence  on  French  literature,  see  Von  Rossel,  His- 
toire  des  Relations  Litter  aires  enlre  La  France  et  L'Allemagne, 
1897;  Suepfle,  Geschichte  des  deutschen  KuUureinflusses  auf 
Frankreich,  1S86;  Sachs,  Schillers  Beziehungen  zur  franzosischen 
und  englischen  Liter atiir,  1861.     The  best  Life  of  Schiller  in  Eng- 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

Schiller's  personality  was  particularly  charm- 
ing, in  its  frankness,  honesty,  noble  ideality; 
there  was  a  combination  of  Spartan  simplicity 
with  singular  sweetness  that  endeared  him  to  those 
who  knew  him  well.  When  he  was  a  boy  at 
school,  he  wrote  of  himself,  "You  will  hear  that 
I  am  obstinate,  passionate,  and  impatient ;  but 
you  will  also  hear  of  my  sincerity,  my  fidelity, 
and  my  good  heart."  Madame  de  Stael  gave 
excellent  testimony  to  the  moral  worth  and  per- 
sonal charm  of  Schiller.  She  arrived  at  Weimar 
in  December  1803,  and  her  coming  was  awaited 
by  both  Goethe  and  Schiller  with  terror;  they 
looked  for  a  combination  of  the  blue  stocking  and 
the  new  woman,  and  were  fearful  of  boredom. 
Goethe  was  at  Jena,  and  was  so  afraid  of  her  that 
he  did  not  dare  to  return  to  Weimar.  Schiller 
wrote  that  God  had  sent  this  woman  to  torment 
him  !  But  familiarity  bred  just  the  opposite  of 
contempt. 

Professor  W.  H.  Carruth  says,  in  an  admirable 
article  on  Schiller's  religion,  "He  believed  stead- 

lish  is  by  Professor  Calvin  Thomas,  of  Columbia,  1901 ;  and  all 
students  are  grateful  to  Professor  Learned  of  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania  for  the  work  done  under  his  direction,  which 
has  contributed  immensely  to  our  knowledge  of  the  influence  of 
German  literature  on  early  American  writers.  For  example,  see 
Translations  of  German  Poetry  in  American  Magazines  (1741- 
1810),  by  Dr.  E.  Z.  Davis. 

310 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

fastly,  with  no  more  hesitation  and  intermission 
than  many  a  patriarch  and  saint  in  one  God,  All- 
Wise,  All-Knowing,  Loving  Power,  immanent  in 
the  Universe  and  especially  in  man.  .  .  .  Schiller 
had  a  true  feeling  in  his  youth  when  he  believed 
himself  called  to  preach.  .  .  .  Everyone  .  .  . 
was  impressed  with  this  sense  of  his  priestly  and 
prophetic  character,  using  the  words  in  their  best 
sense." 

The  great  English  scholar  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  John  Selden,  wrote  in  Greek  in  every 
book  in  his  library  the  words,  "Above  all.  Liberty." 
These  eloquent  words  might  have  been  placed  on 
the  title-page  of  each  book  that  Schiller  produced. 
The  mainspring  of  his  life,  the  central  theme  in 
every  drama  from  The  Robbers  to  William  Tell,  is 
Liberty.  He  was  an  ardent  individualist,  and 
nearly  all  his  works  as  well  as  his  own  life  illustrate 
the  combat  between  the  individual  and  the  social 
order.  No  writer  has  perhaps  ever  stood  more 
consistently  for  intellectual  freedom.  In  1827 
Goethe  remarked  to  Eckermann :  ''Durch  alle 
Werke  Schillers  geht  die  Idee  von  Freiheit,  und 
diese  Idee  nahm  eine  andere  Gestalt  an,  sowie 
Schiller  in  seiner  Cultur  weiter  ging  und  selbst 
ein  andrer  wurde.  In  seiner  Jugend  war  es  die 
physische  Freiheit,  die  ihm  zu  schaflfen  machte 
und  die  in  seine  Dichtungen  iiberging,  in  seinem 

311 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

spatern  Leben  die  ideelle."  Goethe  also  said  that 
Schiller,  in  his  love  for  the  Ideal,  had  no  rival  in 
German  literature,  nor  in  the  literature  of  the 
world.  The  man  most  similar  to  him  in  this 
respect,  said  Goethe,  was  Byron,  and  Goethe  ex- 
pressed the  wish  that  Schiller  might  have  lived  long 
enough  to  read  the  poetry  of  the  Englishman. 

Schiller  had  an  aspiring  soul ;  there  was,  as 
Goethe  once  remarked,  not  a  trace  of  the  common 
or  the  vulgar  in  his  mind.  He  longed  ever  for 
greater  heights,  and  the  fiery  energy  of  his  soul 
consumed  his  physical  vitality.  His  body  simply 
could  not  stand  the  imperious  demands  of  his 
genius.  To  him  the  tragedy  of  life  was  the  sad 
disparity  between  the  spiritual  ambition,  the  long- 
ing of  the  lonely  heart,  and  the  limitations  of  the 
flesh.  He  expressed  all  this  in  his  fine  poem,  Das 
Ideal  und  das  Leben. 

We  Americans  ought  to  love  Schiller,  for  the 
salient  qualities  of  his  soul  —  energy,  courage, 
virility  —  are  the  characteristics  that  we  like  to 
think  belong  to  the  American  temperament.  And 
we  can  learn  much  from  the  life  and  works  of 
Schiller  —  simplicity,  honesty,  fearlessness  before 
the  tyranny  of  convention,  purity  of  motive. 
To  the  strong  and  reverent  man  —  in  whose  char- 
acter dwells  a  combination  of  Faith  and  Energy  — 
the  heavenly  vision  is  never  absent.    In  Schiller's 

312 


SCHILLER'S    PERSONALITY 

beautiful  poem  on  Columbus,  a  poem  that  rouses 
the  heart  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  Schiller 
has  given  us  the  essence  of  his  soul. 

"  Steure,  mutiger  Segler !     Es  mag  der  Witz  dich  verhohnen 
Und  der  Schiffer  am  Steu'r  senken  die  lassige  Hand  — 
Immer,  immer  nach  West !  Dort  muss  die  Kiiste  sich  zeigen, 
Liegt  sie  doch  deutlich  und  liegt  schimmernd  vor  deinem 

Verstand. 
Traue  dem  leitenden  Gott  und  folge  dem  schweigenden 

Weltmeer ! 
War'  sie  noch  nicht,  sie  stieg'  jetzt  aus  dem  Fluten  empor. 
Mit  dem  Genius  steht  die  Natur  in  ewigem  Bunde : 
Was  der  eine  verspricht,  leistet  die  andre  gewiss." 


313 


xm 

CONVERSATIONS   WITH    PAUL   HEYSE 

Paul  Heyse  died  on  the  second  of  April  19 14, 
at  his  home  in  Munich,  having  reached  the  age  of 
eighty-four  years.  His  literary  career  began  in 
1850,  and  he  wrote  steadily  to  his  last  hour;  his 
publications  covered  an  immense  range  —  novels, 
short  stories,  poems,  plays,  with  a  great  number  of 
essays  in  philosophy  and  criticism.  The  King 
of  Bavaria  in  1854  offered  him  a  home  in  Munich, 
with  a  pension  of  five  hundred  dollars  a  year, 
so  that  nearly  the  whole  active  life  of  this  Berliner 
was  identified  with  the  intellectual  centre  of  South 
Germany.     In  19 10  he  received  the  Nobel  Prize. 

When  I  was  a  very  young  man,  I  came  across 
an  old  paper-cover  translation  of  Heyse's  long 
novel,  The  Children  of  the  World.  I  read  it  with 
such  deUght  that  I  remember  my  first  waking 
thoughts  every  day  were  full  of  happy  anticipation. 
I  lived  with  that  group  of  characters,  and  whenever 
I  open  the  book  now,  I  find  their  charm  as  potent 
as  ever.  My  hope  of  sometime  seeing  and  talking 
with  the  man  who  had  given  me  so  much  pleasure 
was  satisfied  in  1904. 

314 


CONVERSATIONS    WITH    PAUL    HEYSE 

It  was  Sunday,  the  fifth  of  June,  and  a  bright, 
warm  afternoon,  when  I  walked  along  the  Luisen- 
strasse  in  Munich,  and  stopped  at  Number  22. 
Almost  before  I  knew  it,  I  was  talking  intimately 
with  the  famous  novelist.  He  was  then  seventy- 
four,  but  remarkably  vigorous  and  fresh-faced, 
an  abundant  shower  of  dark  hair  falling  on  his 
neck  and  shoulders,  and  his  full  beard  sHghtly 
grizzled.  He  was  immensely  interested  in  the 
criticisms  of  his  play,  Maria  von  Magdala,  which 
Mrs.  Fiske  had  been  presenting  with  great  success 
in  America.  He  told  me  with  ardent  satisfaction 
of  the  large  cash  royalties  that  had  steadily  poured 
in  from  across  the  sea.  He  wished  to  know  in- 
finite detail  about  Mrs.  Fiske.  "She  is  a  most 
beautiful  woman,  is  she  not?"  asked  the  old  man, 
eagerly.  "On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "she  is 
decidedly  lacking  in  physical  charm,  both  in  face 
and  figure."  This  seemed  a  cruel  disappointment 
to  him,  as  he  had  evidently  pictured  a  superbly 
handsome  creature  as  the  incarnation  of  his  work. 
I  explained  to  him  that  so  soon  as  Mrs.  Fiske  had 
spoken  a  dozen  lines  on  the  stage,  no  one  knew  or 
cared  whether  she  were  beautiful  or  not;  her 
personality  was  so  impressive,  so  compelling,  that 
she  drew  irresistibly  the  most  intense  sympathy ; 
that  this  seemed  to  me  her  greatest  triumph,  by 
sheer  brains  and  art  to  produce  the  illusion  of  a 
315 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

lovely,  suffering  woman.  But  Heyse  was  not  satis- 
fied. "  Man  hat  mir  gesagt,  dass  sie  sehr  schon  ist." 
Several  other  visitors  entered,  and  Heyse,  forget- 
ting he  was  a  dramatist,  and  remembering  only 
that  he  was  a  doctor  of  philosophy,  plunged  into 
an  excited  discussion  about  the  work  of  Professor 
Justi,  of  the  University  of  Bonn.  Not  being  par- 
ticularly interested,  I  have  forgotten  everything 
he  said  about  this  philosopher  and  art-critic.  I 
waited  patiently  for  a  change  in  the  weather. 

It  came.  The  conversation  suddenly  shifted 
to  American  literature.  "Who  is  your  greatest 
living  writer?"  I  knew  that  Heyse  was  a  grave, 
serious,  melancholy  man,  but  I  boldly  answered, 
"Mark  Twain."  Heyse  shook  his  head,  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger.  "I  have  always  heard  of 
Mark  Twain's  humour  —  that  he  was  the  funniest 
man  on  earth.  I  therefore  read  with  the  most 
conscientious  attention  every  word  of  Huckleberry 
Finn.  I  never  laughed  once.  I  found  absolutely 
not  a  funny  thing  in  the  book." 

Before  going,  I  asked  him  to  write  his  name  in 
my  copy  of  Kinder  der  Welt.  He  comphed  most 
graciously,  though  he  was  surprised,  and  not  over- 
pleased  to  learn  of  my  enthusiasm  for  this  particular 
novel.  He  gave  me  a  really  affectionate  farewell, 
and  asked  me  with  the  most  charming  courtesy  to 
come  and  see  him  whenever  I  should  be  in  Munich. 

316 


CONVERSATIONS    WITH    PAUL    HEYSE 

On  the  twenty-first  of  January  191 2,  a  glorious 
winter  day,  I  went  to  see  him  again,  and  literally 
sat  at  his  feet.  He  was  over  eighty  years  old  ;  he 
occupied  a  huge  carved  chair  in  the  centre  of  his 
library ;  the  winter  sunlight  streamed  through  the 
windows,  crowning  his  noble  head  with  gold.  The 
walls  of  the  room  were  entirely  lined  with  books, 
and  he  made  such  an  impressive  picture  in  these 
surroundings,  that  for  a  time  I  hardly  heard  a 
word  he  said,  so  absorbed  was  I  by  the  dignity 
and  beauty  of  the  scene. 

I  took  a  little  chair,  directly  in  front  of  him, 
looking  up  with  real  reverence  into  his  face.  "I 
have  lived  in  this  same  house  nearly  sixty  years. 
When  I  first  came  here,  everyone  said,  'Why  do 
you  five  in  the  country,  so  far  from  the  city  ? '  But 
you  see  the  city  has  come  to  me,  and  now  I  am  in 
the  very  heart  of  Munich.  I  love  this  house  and 
this  street,  for  I  have  known  no  other  home  since 
I  came  to  Bavaria."  Once  more  I  told  him  of 
my  youthful  enthusiasm  for  The  Children  of  the 
World.  He  said  with  the  utmost  sincerity :  "I 
never  read  any  of  my  own  works.  I  have  forgot- 
ten practically  everything  in  the  book  you  admire. 
But  I  do  remember  that  it  does  not  express  my 
real  attitude  towards  life,  only  a  certain  viewpoint. 
Everyone  who  reads  that  story  ought  also  to  read 
my  Merlin,  as  it  supplies  exactly  the  proper  anti- 
317 


ESSAYS    ON    BOOKS 

dote.  The  fact  is,  I  read  no  novels  at  all,  and 
have  not  for  years.  My  reading  is  entirely  con- 
fined to  works  on  philosophy  and  metaphysics, 
which  have  been  the  real  passion  of  my  life."  He 
mentioned,  however,  a  number  of  the  young  poets, 
novelists,  and  dramatists  of  to-day,  without  a 
single  jealous  or  disparaging  word.  "I  have  not 
time  to  read  much  of  these  young  fellows,  but 
from  all  appearances,  I  think  the  outlook  for 
German  literature  in  the  next  generation  exceed- 
ingly bright.  The  air  is  full  of  signs  of  promise. 
For  me  —  ach,  ich  bin  alter  Herr!"  He  said  this 
with  indescribable  charm. 

I  reminded  him  that  on  the  coming  Wednesday 
night  a  new  play  of  his  was  to  have  its  first  perform- 
ance at  the  Residenz  Theatre.  I  told  him  how 
keenly  I  enjoyed  Uraufuhrungen  in  Munich,  and 
remarked  that  of  course  he  would  be  present.  ^''  Aher 
nein !  I  never  under  any  circumstances  attend  the 
first  performances  of  my  plays.  It  is  too  painful. 
How  can  I  be  sure,  no  matter  how  intelligent  the 
actors  may  be,  that  they  will  interpret  correctly 
my  real  meaning  in  my  characters  and  dialogue? 
And  to  be  in  the  least  misinterpreted  is  as  distress- 
ing to  me  as  a  typographical  error  in  one  of  my 
printed  works.  When  I  take  up  a  new  book  of 
mine,  fresh  from  the  press,  and  find  a  single  typo- 
graphical error,  I  lie  awake  all  night." 

318 


CONVERSATIONS    WITH    PAUL    HEYSE 

Then  the  conversation  turned  to  religion.  "Now 
that  I  am  an  old  man,  I  have  changed  somewhat  my 
views  about  religion.  I  used  to  think  that  perhaps 
we  could  get  along  without  it.  Now  I  know  that 
humanity  can  never  exist  without  religion,  and  that 
there  is  absolutely  no  substitute  for  it.  How  are 
the  poor  and  the  sick  to  Uve  without  the  hope  and 
comfort  of  faith  in  God  ?  Suppose  a  poor  seam- 
stress has  consumption,  who  would  wish  to  take 
away  from  her  the  only  hope  she  has  —  her  belief 
in  rehgion  ?  Science  and  Monism  can  never  fill 
any  place  in  the  human  heart.  Religion  alone  can 
satisfy  human  longings  and  human  aspiration." 

When  I  rose  to  go,  he  accompanied  me  to  the 
door.  I  was  deeply  affected,  as  I  knew  I  should  see 
his  face  no  more.  He  seemed  to  read  my  mind,  for 
he  said  very  affectionately,  but  very  gravely, 
"Wenn  Sie  in  Amerika  wieder  sind,  denken  Sie  an 


319 


'H 


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